Assets
by GeekMom
Summary: A/U Meeting. Richard Castle is talented handing figures, but he didn't know he was missing a past part of his life until he met Detective Kate Beckett. I give all the credit to the original owners of Castle, but claim interest in their characters' unrealized appreciation. *No Accountants were harmed in the writing of this fic. #TaxFic
1. Margin of Interest

_Blame the CastleFicStreamCon, a Tweeted picture, and the glasses…always blame the glasses._

* * *

Assets

Chapter 1

Margin of Interest

Rick lifted his eyes from the screen: seven days, a handful of hours and not nearly adequate amounts of coffee before he'd be free. The deadline will have come and gone and he couldn't wait for a break. Well, not really free or a break per se, but less inundated with the procrastinators, the unorganized and the people who wanted him to cheat. He was very talented, creative even and second to none when providing his clients a way to circumvent one of the two inevitable events in life, although if you had asked him in college if he ever would need his accounting degree, he would have answered a resounding 'no.'

He sighed, cracked his neck and saved his work. He checked the time on the wall clock. The last of the pink and purple glow of early spring daylight bounced off the steel and glass outside of his window providing the only other light than his desk lamp and the glow of the computer screens. His next appointment, the last of the day, would arrive in a few minutes, if they were on time—most of them weren't. He rubbed his eyes.

She'd sounded desperate on the phone after she had demanded to speak with him, leaving his assistant nearly in tears. That his assistant happened to be his daughter, who was interning for him this month didn't color his opinion of the woman…much.

He stood, straightened and tightened his tie and twisted his torso, cracking his back for good measure. Tax season meant longer hours and longer hours meant he wasn't able to get to the gym regularly. Checking his reflection, in the glass covering the portrait of Hamilton, a gift from his mother because he was the 'treasury and tax guy', he reached for the door. It burst open emitting a flash of red.

He caught his daughter in his arms. "Whoa, Alexis? What's wrong?"

"There's a woman." She closed his office door quietly.

"Yeah, it's probably my seven o'clock." He narrowed his eyes as he took in his daughter. "What's…"

"Mr. Castle?" Alexis' eyes grew huge, fearful at the sound of the woman's voice.

Rick half-grinned, rubbed his hands on her upper arms before he squeezed and drew her into a hug. He tried to sound soothing to the freaked-out girl. "Look, it's late. Take off. I'll handle Ms.…um…" He stretched his neck to peek at his notes.

"Beckett, Dad. Her name is Beckett and she's a detective not a Ms."

"Okay, either way…"

"Mr. Castle, I don't have all evening."

Pulling his lips between his teeth, he winked at his girl to send her on her way. "Just lock up on your way out, please. We don't want any crazies wandering in."

"Too late," Alexis remarked. She shook her head. "Good night, Daddy. Be safe," she mumbled as she hugged him again. He chuckled: his daughter seemed to have inherited some of his mother's melodramatic tendencies.

His inner office door burst open for the second time in under a minute and a tall, slender goddess in a trench coat stood framed by the harsh fluorescent lights of the reception area. Rick's jaw refused to close, nor his eyebrows to climb down from his forehead. Frozen in the middle of their hug, Alexis drew nearer to her father and instinctively, he responded by holding her tightly.

"Are you Castle?"

"Um…" He spun in place, trying to extricate his hand.

The goddess squinted and pursed her lips, her hands resting judgmentally on her hips. "I'm sorry; do you need a minute so you can finish groping your assistant?"

"Groping…oh, no—she's my daughter." Beckett raised an eyebrow. "No, ew, not…just…" He all but pushed his daughter out of the door. "Bye, Honey…and don't forget the doors."

"But, Dad…" Alexis protested, but the woman had already moved to his coat rack and was unwinding a scarf from around her neck.

Rick smiled to reassure his daughter while he closed his office door. "See you at home, Pumpkin."

Beckett sighed dramatically. "Look, I don't have much time and I would have gone to one of those kiosk thingies, but my friend Lanie said you were the best."

It was true. Her best friend had recommended Castle Accounting, but not only because he was a genius with numbers and tax law, but also because he was the hottest pencil pusher Lanie had ever seen: a nerd, sure, but a yummy nerd. That and he'd saved the medical examiner thousands of dollars. She reported that she'd not seen any evidence of a ring on his finger either. Beckett had rolled her eyes at her friend's never-ending crusade to hook her up, but made the appointment, nonetheless.

"I, uh…no, um…You're my next appointment, Ms. Beckett." He indicated a seat in front of his desk. "Please have a seat?"

"Detective."

Still flummoxed, Rick blinked. "I…I'm sorry?"

"My title. If you insist on using a title, it's detective." She smirked as she sat. "Tax King Castle."

"Oh," he dismissed as he took his seat. "Those…" He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, making his glasses jump. "Those asinine commercials were my mother's idea: my birthday gift from her this year. I didn't even see them before they started airing. I assure you Detective Beckett, that I am not all that cheesy."

She lifted an eyebrow. "That remains to be seen." With that she hefted a worn leather satchel, the kind an old time attorney would carry, 'Like Matlock,' he thought. It came complete with brass buckles and water stains, and she dumped it indelicately onto his desk. The weight of it slamming onto his blotter made the highlighters and pencils strewn there jump right along with Rick.

He swallowed and tugged at his collar. She noticed his shadowed jawline and the way his Adam's apple bobbed, yearning to be unencumbered by the tight necktie. "Um…I, uh…I could use a cup of coffee. Can I get you something?"

She made a distasteful face. His coffee was probably no better than the monkey pee and battery acid late-night blend she tolerated at the precinct, but at least there she was used to it. It was hard to imagine that she'd be able to stomach anyone else's swill.

"It's espresso. I have a fair selection of flavors and can steam some pretty mean milk."

"Um, yeah…please," she softened and exhaled, her shoulders losing a little rigidity. "Can…do you have vanilla?"

"Basic," he drawled, followed by a smile. "How would you like it prepared? Cappuccino, Latte, Macchiato—whatever you'd like."

"Oh."

"Come on, Detective. Let me earn my percentage. Pick your poison."

"Okay: I'd love a latte with two pumps of sugar free vanilla, if you have it, and skim milk: again, only if you have it."

"If we have it," he scoffed as he scrunched his face. "I'll be right back." He disappeared out of the frosted glass door bearing his name, but omitting the cheesy TV designation, and turned left down the hallway to where Beckett imagined must have been the small office's break room.

She took a moment and looked around, okay; she admitted to herself, she snooped around his office.

Standard, she thought. Bookcases filled with what she recognized as law books, but upon closer inspection turned out to be Tax Code and a couple of well-worn mystery books, and knick-knacks; degrees framed and hung on the wall along with certificates of his continued education and a couple of motivational plaques. One read: 'Life is like accounting, everything must be in balance.'

The desk was a little over-sized, but because of the way it had been arranged it fit in the space well. A picture of a younger him, still wearing his glasses, a plaid shirt and a bowtie, posed with an older redhead, held a place of honor on his desk among the papers, files and a calculator, on which the numbers on the keys were nearly worn off. After a closer examination of the photo, Kate smiled despite herself: Lanie had been right: he made the most delicious nerd-itizer she'd ever seen. Another, more contemporary photo was of him and his daughter at some sort of fair or costume contest with a fortune cookie paper attached to the corner that read: 'The minute that you think of giving up; think of the reason that you've held on for so long.' Beginning to get a picture of Tax King Castle, she ran her finger over his image, but then jerking it back as if the glass were hot, once she'd realized she'd been stroking the photo a little too long.

A pathetic plant sat breathing it's last on the windowsill behind his desk. She had never possessed a green thumb herself, but she couldn't sit there watching this wretched thing gasp. She went to the reception area, grabbed two paper cups full of water from the cooler, and brought it back to the dying vegetation as if she were providing a life-saving transfusion. The desk chair she had to roll back toward his desk in order to deliver the sustaining water was expensive: soft leather and had lumbar support built into the padding.

She noticed the faded pink strands hanging limply off the ends of the stems of the plant and never having seen the plant before, dead or alive, she sought out the plastic plant label jammed into the brittle, cracked Saharan soil. "Hm, Cat's Tail," she read aloud and briefly wondered why he would have chosen the pink fluffy flower in the picture for the otherwise utilitarian albeit masculine décor of his office, but her question was answered as she turned the label over and read, 'Thanks for a top ten, Kitten. Luv, M.' The writer was obviously female: in addition to the cute (read nauseating) spelling; she'd added a little heart over the 'I' in kitten. She shook her head, doing her best to ignore the unwanted pangs in her chest brought on by the obvious indication of a girlfriend and began to pour the life giving liquid into the pot all the while imagining Colin Clive's Dr. Frankenstein shouting, 'Look! It's moving. It's alive. It's alive...It's alive, it's moving, it's alive, it's alive, it's alive, it's alive, IT'S ALIVE!' She chuckled.

"Okay," her host said as he stepped into the room with two coffees in plain white, but elegant ceramic mugs. "A latte with…" He noticed her behind his desk. "Um, what are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she jumped when he entered, caught. "I…I just couldn't watch this poor little fella die."

He narrowed his eyes. "What the…" Setting the coffees down on his desk he hurried next to her. That damn note from Meredith was still on the plant. "Um, Ms. Beckett…" he stammered as he ushered her around his desk.

"Detective," she corrected.

"Yes. Detective Beckett, please…" He blinked again and licked his lips. "Please just have a seat."

She sat and after waiting like a gentleman, he did as well, but then he turned his shirtsleeve cuffs up, tucking them to just under the elbows, as he explained something she needed him to repeat: his forearms were muscular and mesmerizing. After the awkwardness of her trying to save a plant, about which he couldn't have cared less, they began a stilted, but cordial interview. He asked her questions and she answered. Some might have been more personal than a tax advisor or accountant would need, and yes, he skirted that line, but he needed to know more about her. There was something in her eyes that touched a long-dormant part of his soul. Was he pathetic? Maybe, but he wasn't willing to let the feeling stirring in him be ignored. Besides, he really did need to know if she lived alone and could claim no other personal exemptions.

An eternity of no noise in the room later, save shuffling of her papers and receipts, a few clicks on his keyboard and the occasional sip from their coffees: the heavenly coffee he'd brought her, she leaned forward. "Um…do you have any other questions?"

"Actually, no: this is all fairly straight forward." A closed lip smile meant to reassure her appeared on his face. He had gorgeous eyes behind those glasses. Kate wondered if he needed the glasses all the time or just for work. "I've begun a list of corroborating evidence that I'll need you to produce for our next appointment."

Kate sat back. "Oh. I thought this would be the only appointment."

He truly didn't need anything else from her. He could work his magic without the nit-picky list of items he had requested, but he wanted her to come back. "It might have been had you had all of your receipts," he gulped as he handed her the printed list, which just happened to be printed on his letterhead...which just happened to include his name and number. "How...um...how much time do you think you'll need to...ah...locate those papers?"

She skimmed the list. "Um, maybe a couple of days…I have to work, too."

He opened the calendar on his computer. Two days from now had him scheduled for sixteen hours of appointments. Shit. Sighing, he checked the third day. "How about Friday? I could squeeze you…" he cleared his throat. "Um…I could squeeze you in at seven again."

"You'll be working later than seven? On a Friday night?"

He chuckled in a boyish, bashful way. "'Tis the season for tax filing…" he semi-sang, semi-whined, awkwardly. He read her confusion and murmured, "sorry: it's an accountant joke."

She smirked, "That's okay, Castle: I bet there aren't too many. You go ahead and keep that one alive." She stood and gathered her briefcase and turned for her coat.

He weakly chuckled. He knew better than to try and be funny. That was for his alter ego, not for the version of himself he'd created right after Meredith left him. When he'd worried about providing for his daughter after he couldn't get his second book published. He sighed and realized the detective still stood in his doorway. "Sorry, Detective, sorry: I'll...um...let you out."

"Oh, oh yeah," she stumbled over her words and headed to his outer office with him close on her heals. She stopped and he plowed into the back of her, nearly knocking them both onto the floor.

"Oh my God: are you all right?" he gasped as he grabbed her elbows.

"I'm fine," she said, turning to face him. "I stopped because," she let out a quick exhale. "I stopped because I can't meet you on Friday evening…"

His face, which was so much nearer since she turned around, dropped along with his eyes. She could smell hours of coffee and the lingering faint scent of his aftershave. This close, she could see the exhaustion around his eyes, but the eyes themselves were bright and seemed to be endless pools. He half smiled, but it wasn't enough to crinkle the laugh lines bracketing those eyes. "That's okay; um…you can just drop it…"

"No, that's not what I meant, Castle. Look, I can't meet you on Friday evening...here: I'm working late, but you've got to eat, right?" He nodded. "So do I. Can we meet somewhere other than here? Maybe grab some dinner?"

He raised an eyebrow, desperately trying to regain control of his senses. She smelled like cherries and vanilla and gunpowder. "Detective Beckett, are you asking me out?"

"Well, no…I mean not…look: you have a girlfriend or some significant other." she gestured toward the still open door of his office. She said it as a statement, a fact, but her tone rose at the end of her sentence and her expression held hope.

He scowled and turned his head back toward his door. "A girl? Alexis? No she's my…"

"Your daughter, yeah I know, I got that. No. I meant the giver of the plant: M?"

He started to chuckle and then laugh, his humor lighting his face and reaching those well-used laugh lines, deepening them. He bent over and Kate had to admit that she enjoyed watching the muscles ripple under the dress shirt. He stood again, wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry Detective, but Meredith?" He shook his head, "no, no, not Meredith. She's Alexis' mother, my ex, nothing more," he mirthfully sighed.

Kate raised her eyebrow in disbelief. "Kitten?"

All mirth dropped from his expression and he frowned. "Yeah, she…she tries to get me angry. Look, Kate?" She nodded her permission to use her first name. "I'd love to have dinner with you on Friday. Let's not make it anywhere too fancy. I'll have to come straight from here."

"I've got just the place, if you like cheeseburgers and shakes. I'll send you the address?" She smiled as he nodded. "Well, goodnight, Castle."

"Until we meet again on Friday, Kate."

"Can't you just say goodnight"

"Until we meet again is more…hopeful," he tilted his head as he grinned bashfully.

She smiled. "Then…until then, Rick."

He watched her get into a cab and then he locked his door and went back to his desk. Smiling, he lifted his feet and spun in his chair a couple of rotations, but stopped it short facing the window, a streetlight bleeding its orange glow into the corners of his space eerily backlit the dying reminder of a dead relationship. He stood, picked up the plant and dropped it into the trashcan with a resounding and satisfying thud.

Saving and closing all his files and programs, he almost shut the laptop, but instead opened a new document file and began to write. He hadn't written in years and almost as if he was experiencing an out of body moment, he watched his fingers fly across the keyboard, painting a picture with words, a medium that had been mute to him for too long.

He smiled unabashedly and continuously as he walked toward the subway that night. He didn't care if he looked like a lunatic. It was the first time in a long time he had looked forward to meeting a client a second time.

* * *

 ** _A/N - I don't know how far I'll take this, but it is dedicated to griever11, jstar1382, perspex13 and the seemingly disproportionate number of accounting professionals who write Castle Fan Fiction, for the tease, the images that haunt my dreams and the inspiration._**

 ** _Please read the collaborative genius of jstar1382 & griever11's Accruel World_**

 _ **Recently, a group of Castle Fan Fic Writers was able to interact more personally on the CastleFanFicStreamCon. This was organized and run by Griever11 to the detriment of her sleep, her nutrition and I fear, a bit of her sanity. All told, it is 30+ hours of fun, interviews and questions from all your favorite Castle fan fic authors. Hopefully we'll do it again.**_

 _ **If you haven't had an opportunity to watch, please check it out. (Replace punctuation, which is in bold and italicized with the actual punctuation and remove the spaces for the links to the Stream Con videos)**_

www _**dot**_ twitch _**dot**_ tv _**slash**_ castleficstreamcon _**slash**_ profile _**slash**_ highlights

 _ **And, finally a special shout out to Perspex13, my bud who shared the hour and made the process that much more fun.**_

 _ **This is our interview.**_

www _**dot**_ twitch _**dot**_ tv _**slash**_ castleficstreamcon _**slash**_ v _**slash**_ 80955519


	2. Net Unrealized and Realized Appreciation

_**A/N - Hi all!**_

 _ **Not much to say this time, except thanks for sticking with me. I have the next chapter written, it just needs a little polish. Thanks for all of your kind words and comments in the reviews.**_

 ** _Please enjoy!_**

 ** _~GeekMom_**

 ** _Dedicated to all the Castle Fan Fiction Authors taking part in the second Castle Fic Stream Con, but especially Griever11._**

 **Assets**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Net Unrealized and Realized Appreciation**

Sitting at his breakfast bar, he read his email and double checked his schedule while eating what had begun mere moments earlier as corn flakes, but were rapidly becoming a substance tackier than concrete.

Alexis skipped down the stairs and planted a kiss on his cheek as she sped by. "Morning, Dad." She drew back and rubbed both her palms on either side of his face. "Hmm…weird: skipped shaving today?" She called over her shoulder as she moved toward the refrigerator.

Rick raised his head from his iPad, dropped his spoon, and felt his cheek. "Huh," he mumbled at the beginning of a yawn he didn't bother to stifle, "must have forgotten."

Alexis spun in her spot and scowled at her father. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah…why?"

"I have never known you to skip shaving, even when we're camping. And you just forgot?" She walked back across the kitchen to him, her eyes full of concern. "Dad, are you sick, really — you look tired: really tired."

He assured, "I'm fine, Pumpkin. Just a little sleepy."

She tilted her head, assessing him. Sometimes life was hard, befuddling even, when your teenager wanted to parent you. "When did you get home last night?" Her eyes widened and she gripped the edge of the granite countertop. "Oh god, did that terrifying woman keep you up at work all night?"

Rick smiled inwardly. Yes, she kept him up, but not at work and definitely not in ways he could tell his fifteen-year-old. Alexis would be thrilled to hear that he was writing…anything, she was his biggest fan, but some of the things he wrote about the detective would never be published even if he could, against odds, get anything in print again.

"She left my office around nine thirty or so. I stayed to finish up the notes, you know."

"You didn't make the police detective mad, did you? You were able to help her?"

"Yes, I was able to help and no, I didn't make her mad." He allowed himself a small-satisfied smile. Realizing his daughter was watching him, hawk-like, he tempered his schoolboy crush face. Clearing his throat, he added, "She has some complications concerning an inheritance, but nothing I can't handle."

Alexis raised an eyebrow in an uncomfortably knowing way and opened her mouth to respond but was preempted by an announcement from the staircase. "That's because you are the Tax King Castle."

Rick closed his eyes and inhaled. He felt the sympathetic squeeze of his daughter's hand over his. Opening his eyes, he pivoted his body to watch his mother descend the last few steps in a caftan that would put the vibrant denizens of the rain forest to shame.

"Good morning, Mother." He lifted a spoonful of the corn glop, made a face, and let it plop back into the bowl. Reaching across the counter he opted for an apple instead.

"Oh goodness, Richard! You look positively dreadful."

"Thank you, Mother. That was the look I was going for this morning."

"No really," she said as she reached for his forehead.

He ducked away from her ministrations. "I was up late," he explained around a chunk of apple in his mouth. After swallowing, he explained, "Writing." He grinned at Alexis who clapped her hands once excitedly.

Martha stopped stirring her coffee and watching the swirl of cream meld into the black creating a familiar tan, she asked, "Writing what?" still facing the cabinets.

He sat up, clearly thrilled. "A character…I had an idea for a character and I wanted to get some things down on the paper."

Martha raised an eyebrow as she turned to face him. "How many words?"

"Mother…" he warned. His mother could be his biggest, staunchest supporter, but she was also the one who consoled him after his numerous rejections and urged him to make good use of his other degree, the backup which became his primary somewhere along the way.

"Just wondering. It's a hell of a time of year to get that itch," she commented blithely. "I hope it's scratched good enough for now."

"Maybe…" he smiled wistfully. "I just…I haven't felt the need or want to write like this in years. It feels really good. It's also nice to know that this part of me hasn't completely died, just laid dormant."

Martha bit her lip. After the critical acclaim and promising income he'd earned from his first book, he'd been overwhelmed by an unending series of disappointments and rejections, blow after blow: his marriage and subsequent divorce, until finally his writing: his creativity stifled and snuffed out by the harsh realities and responsibilities of single handedly raising a child. And when he finally did produce something, in between the rest of the upheaval that was his life for a time, his former publishers and editors were brutal and refused publication. She didn't want to see him get his hopes up only to be dashed by some unfeeling, bottle-blonde shrew with a red pen, if he even got that far.

No, he was better off playing it safe. Besides, he had a talent for accounting. He wasn't wasted in that career. He enjoyed helping people. She knew she couldn't come right out and tell him to grow up, that he'd come too far to go back to something so uncertain, so destructive. No, she just had to remind him that dreams were for the young and unburdened.

"You know, I understand that Morty has received quite a few inquiries regarding your commercial."

Rick shook his head vehemently. "It wasn't my commercial," he denied. "And Morty…really? You never told me that was who… Didn't he steal…?"

"Ah, ah, ah," his mother tut-tutted while wagging her finger in the air.

"Fine…" he rolled his eyes, "didn't he _invest_ most of your savings…?" he sighed, "as a surprise, but lost it, instead?"

They danced this dance every few weeks. He'd been hurt when his mother withdrew her lifesavings from his diligent care and given it to Morty, her live-in mooching, boyfriend to make a so-called investment on her behalf. He didn't speak to her for weeks after the resulting argument which she ended by telling him to mind his own business. Several months later, he found out from a friend of hers that she was sleeping in her salon, Martha's Broadway Beauties, after having been evicted from her apartment. Morty was nowhere in sight.

"Anyway, he's got a real talent for shooting commercials. He said I might be in one."

Rick watched the wistful gleam coat his mother's eyes and felt the familiar yoke of guilt settle down on his shoulders. She'd given up her dream of acting on Broadway when she'd found out that she was pregnant with him.

"Hmm. If you were, you'd be terrific," he offered quietly, the culpability he carried for ruining his mother's dreams couched and buttressed his quiet encouragement and reminded him that her sacrifices gave him a steady home just as his own had for his daughter.

"Oh my son," she said as she spun and palmed his rough cheek. "You do know what to say to make me feel better." She leaned into him and brushed a kiss on his cheek. "Now, no more writing into the wee hours, at least until the season is over. You need your rest, Darling and even though you've done well for yourself," she hugged her granddaughter, "your girl here won't be going to a cut-rate college; you need to save for that."

He inhaled and managed a smile for her. "You're right, of course," he agreed, even though Alexis' college fund was set. He looked at his watch. "I'd better be off then. Have a good day, Mother." He kissed her cheek and turned to fill up his travel mug. "Pumpkin? I'll see you after school?"

"Yes, Daddy," she said, the return to her designation she used for him as a little girl confirmed her concern. "I'll come right after practice." She hugged him.

"You'll let me know…"

She rolled her eyes: he made the same request every day after school. "When I get on the subway," she cut him off, somewhat long-suffering and melodramatic. His mother may have given up her dream, but the acting genes were still present.

"I love you, bug. Have a good day."

"You, too," she waved him out the door. "Love you, too."

Alexis turned back around to her grandmother and her half-eaten cereal. "Gram?"

"Yes, Darling," Martha answered from behind the paper.

The girl scowled into her orange juice. "Do you think Dad is all right? He looked…"

"Tired, Baby: he's just tired. You know how hard he works, the long hours…especially now. He needs to not worry about the writing nonsense and get his rest. He'll get a break in a couple of weeks and he'll feel better. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess…"

* * *

As Richard 'Tax King' Castle made his way to the subway that morning through the human throng that occupied New York City, he made eye contact, smiled, helped a wary mother of an unhappy toddler by retrieving a discarded pacifier, and, while everyone else grumbled, he practically danced down the out-of-order escalator to the platform on Spring Street, skipping steps and allowing other riders to board the train before he did. His behavior wasn't any different on any other day, but it was spring, it was warm…ish and despite his mother's best attempts to ground him, he was floating.

He'd dodged the question about word counts, since he hadn't begun a true story. He actually developed the character and a couple of other characters as well. He still had a lot of holes to fill like background, family, history, and daily habits that made a character real. For instance, he knew how she liked her coffee, how she gained and then conquered her adversaries' attention, and that she could be soft, self-effacing, and almost shy: details like that complete a character. In essence, he either spent the evening with Kate Beckett or the ethereal version that invaded his brain and stimulated his creativity both the PG and X versions. It had been a long time since he was moved to fantasize about a woman he hardly knew. The last time, it was Meredith and he was a miserable excuse for a person, still wallowing in his breakup from Kyra, and high on something or drunk, as he often was after Kyra. This time, the only drug was her alluring, hypnotic scent, whatever it was that was drenched in cherries, her unrepentant confidence, and the way she shyly waved and smiled at him as she left his office.

He inhaled as the train approached Columbus Circle, ready to disembark. Normally, from there, he would have caught the Red line to Ninety-Sixth, but he decided to walk the final three and a half miles through the tentative sunshine and budding trees of Central Park, welcoming the warmth and newness of spring. _'God,'_ he thought at his sappiness, _'I've got it bad.'_

Stopping near Strawberry Fields at a food truck for a bottle of water, he first heard the sirens, which wasn't an out of the ordinary occurrence in the middle of Central Park West on any given day, but what was extraordinary was the fact that he turned as the sirens got closer and was knocked down by a man running full tilt through the park. Rick sat up and was checking himself over when another man, a cop, his badge hanging around his neck ran by, followed by another, who slowed long enough to ask Rick if he was okay.

He nodded and stood. Rick peered around the bend on the path to make sure it was clear before he continued walking to work. He bent to brush off any detritus clinging to his suit and noticed a rip where his knee had collided with the pavement. "Damn it," he cursed, but after a moment his irritation and the excitement caused by the chase had dissipated in favor of enjoying the semi-warm breeze ruffling his hair.

He walked a little further and saw the cops who had been in the chase. They were standing with other uniformed police. Rick checked his watch and knowing that his first client wasn't due until eleven, he decided to take a break and watch the drama. He wiped the faint dusting of buttery pollen off a green-slatted bench dedicated to 'Gregory, the best Yorkie ever,' and sat down.

The plain-clothed men were quite animated as they conferred with the cops in uniforms. It looked to Rick as if they might have lost the guy. He smiled as he thought of synonyms: perp, thug, dirt bag, hood, criminal, ruffian. He leaned forward to try and catch any details.

He heard the sounds of the morning in the park, joggers: their sneakers metronomically slapping the asphalt, the grate and whine of the wheels of the people on roller skates or skateboards, vendors shouting their commodities, and the small but hardy cadre of city animals that called the park their home: the true thieves of the park. The breeze carried an occasional expletive from the cops to his ears that made Castle chuckle. He wanted justice done just as much as the next guy did, but honestly, the cops were a little comical, or maybe they seemed amusing because of his fantastic mood. Either way, he enjoyed the show.

An acorn plummeted to the ground in front of the bench, prompting Rick to search the branches above his head for the little beasty that had thrown it. Central Park squirrels could be cunning, brave, and daring, but also obnoxious. He heard one scamper around the boulder behind him and turned to catch a glimpse of the grayish-brown rogue, eager to revel in its cavorting, right up until he heard the damn rodent cock a gun. Rick froze.

"Do not turn around," a man warned. Rick was relatively certain that it was not a squirrel, no matter how obnoxious.

He started to lift his arms. "Oh…okay. Um…I don't carry any cash…"

"Put your damn arms down." A sweatshirt-clad arm came around and pushed his forearm back down against his chest. "I'm not going to rob you," the man's voice was uncomfortably close to Rick's ear. "You and I just became old friends who haven't seen each other in years."

"Oh…um, how do I recognize you if I haven't ever seen you?"

"What? Are you stupid or something?"

"No, no, no, just…it goes to credibility. You want to tell a story in which you and I are acquainted, I'm assuming for the cops over there. If you want it believable, then we need more particulars. For instance, my name is Rick. I'm an accountant. Now, you know a little background on me. It will be easier to convince uh, anyone you're trying to convince," his eyes darted to the police presence, not a hundred yards away, "that we truly know each other."

The man sneered, "You and I will greet each other, loudly enough to get the peripheral attention of those cops over there, and then we'll walk out of the park together. Got it?"

"Oh," Rick said nodding his head keenly, but fighting the admiration he felt for the simple plan. "Hide in plain sight. They're looking for a guy, one man and you'll hide in a group of two."

"Yeah, genius. Let's go." Rick remained on the seat. "Now," the man ordered. Castle heard him un-cock the gun. "Okay, the gun is away, but don't ever forget it's in my pocket or the blade up my sleeve, understand?"

"Yeah," Castle glumly agreed. Only his life, he mused, could go from everything great to everything shit in the space of a moment.

He did as he was told and embraced the man who literally held his life in his pocket. He was saddened to find out that his old friend who couldn't be thirty yet, held a lifetime of disappointment and regret in his eyes. He nudged Castle south on the path.

"So, couldn't decide how to accessorize, huh: a gun to a knife fight or vice versa, right…" he paused and scowled at his newest old friend, "…um what do I call you?"

"What?" The man scowled, obviously lost.

"Well," he drawled with the patience of a man explaining life, love and the universe to a toddler. "We're supposed to be old friends, but not that old, I'm guessing." He winked, more to himself than to his compatriot. "We should have some sort of conversation…you know to add to the realism." He inhaled and straightened his tie. "I'm Rick," he paused and shook his head slightly. "And…what should I call you?"

"Jesus…"

"Nah…isn't there some sort of rule against that?"

"What?"

Rick inhaled, impatiently and placed his hands on his hips.

His long-lost friend pursed his lips and glancing at the cops, agreed, "Okay, okay…you can call me Dennis."

"Dennis?" he chuckled and repeated, "Dennis. Is that really the best you can come up with? Or," he exclaimed turning to his would be buddy or killer, "That's your real name, isn't it?" He elbowed Dennis in the ribs. "Not much of an imagination up there, huh…Dennis?"

He pushed Rick away. "Look, I may just shoot you because you're annoying me, so shut up."

"But," he glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, the younger of the two detectives was watching them. "We need to be more convincing. I don't think they're buying it."

"Who?" Dennis began, but Rick used his momentum as Dennis looked over his shoulder and spun the man toward the ground. Dennis double-backed and swung himself from under the accountant and said accountant vowed to make time for the gym even during tax season as he hit the asphalt pathway hard. "You stupid…" he heard Dennis begin.

"Down on the ground! NYPD! Drop it!"

"Back off or mister superhero gets it," Dennis taunted as he grabbed Rick, hauling him up onto his knees, the now, unconcealed knife near his throat.

"NYPD! Drop it or we drop you," the Hispanic cop roared. Castle decided he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that voice.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

It took Castle a second to realize that the younger cop was asking him. "Oh, me…yeah," he swallowed. "I'm okay. Although, Dennis here could use a refresher course in personal hygiene."

"Hey!" Dennis jerked Castle's head back by the hold on his jacket.

Castle grimaced and felt the blade under his ear. "Okay, okay…I'm sorry." He held his hands up. "I get nervous and I joke."

"Well, this ain't funny."

"No, no it's not," he agreed.

Castle watched as more uniformed officers arrived, weapons drawn, pointing at him, well not at him per se, but at Dennis: his old buddy Dennis. Castle reckoned it was a fine, but important distinction. Dennis held tightly to Castle's collar. If the knife didn't kill him his Windsor knot would. He was sweating and could feel his pulse pounding through the constricting fabric. He pulled away slightly.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Dennis snarled, as he pulled tighter on Castle's collar.

Castle used the anticipated jerk, the pull on his neck, not Dennis, to his advantage, when he gagged and made other choking noises, most were authentic, but some exaggerated thanks to that acting gene. His eyes bugged out and then, without warning, he went completely limp: deadweight. Castle figured he had a good fifty pounds on the guy and hoped that he wouldn't be able to support his weight and still hold off the cops as well.

"What the hell?" Dennis did his best to hang onto his human shield, however, as the bigger man of the two; Castle's weight dragged his arm down with him until Dennis was bent over. "Shit…shit…god damn…"

"Hold it right there and drop it."

Castle resisted the urge to open his eyes, but he'd heard that snarky voice before. He liked it much better when it wasn't directed at him.

"I said to drop it and get on your knees, away from the…Castle?"

"My what?"

"On your knees, dirt bag!"

Castle heard the other cops close in and then, after an eternity in playing-possum years, he finally heard the knife clank on the black top. He opened his eyes and immediately looked up into Kate Beckett's face. "Hey," he offered with a tentative grin.

"Are you all right?" She holstered her weapon as the other plain clothed cops dragged his assailant up and off of Castle, and took Dennis into custody. Leaning down, she helped him sit up.

"Um…" He patted his chest, legs, and arms as he shakily stood, only to be redirected to sit back on Gregory, the Yorkie's bench. "No, I'm fine, I'm fine," he protested as the adrenaline backed color drained from his face.

"It's okay, man," a kindly looking uniformed cop said as he kept his hand on Castle's shoulder. "It's just the rush wearing off. Take deep breaths."

"Castle? I have to go over there for a minute and talk to my team. I'll be right back." She squeezed his forearm and was gone.

"Here, mister?" The cop handed him a bottle of water and a piece of gauze. He motioned to Castle's neck which had been pricked and a small trickle of blood soaked into his collar. "Did Detective Beckett call you Castle?"

"Yeah, yes. That's my name. Rick…um, Richard Castle," he clarified between breaths.

"Yeah man, just breathe through it. And you know Detective Beckett?"

"Um…" he paused unsure if he should just say he was her tax advisor or elaborate to include their budding relationship. "I'm…uh…I'm doing her taxes. I'm her advisor."

"Oh. Well, I'm going to need your name and address. Do you have a license or ID?" Castle leaned forward, dug his wallet out of his pants pocket, and handed it to the man. "Great," he said as he flipped open his notebook. "Broome Street, huh. Do you work around here?"

"Yeah," he chuckled and shook his head, "On ninety-sixth. I usually take the subway, but I just wanted to enjoy the spring day before work."

The officer tilted his head and looked at Castle slyly. "How's that working out for you?"

Castle loosened his tie and rubbed his abused neck. "Just great," he confirmed around clearing his throat.

"Thanks, L.T. I'll take care of his statement," Kate said kindly as she slid in next to the accountant.

"Yes, ma'am," he said and then to Castle he grinned, "Take it easy, man." L.T. bumped his shoulder as he stood.

"Seems like a nice guy," Castle mused, watching L.T. join the other uniforms on perimeter duty. He let his gaze wander back to the woman sitting next to him and he cringed at her glare. "What?"

"First, are you all right?" She surveyed him with worried, yet practiced eyes.

"Why Detective Beckett: were you concerned?"

She rolled her eyes and the worried part trundled out.

"Look, I didn't ask to be held hostage."

"Move your hand," she ordered as she applied a bandage to his neck. "No, but you took an awful chance."

"How do you know that I didn't actually pass out?"

She raised an eyebrow as her answer.

"Well…okay: I didn't, I'm not the actor in my family, but I figured the guy wouldn't be able to hold me up and I was done being a human shield."

She shook her head. "How about that first stunt?"

"What? When I expertly tackled him to the ground while simultaneously alerting the authorities of my predicament?" He blinked innocently.

"You could have gotten hurt. You can't play those percentages."

"Well if it makes you feel any better, when he knocked me down further up the path," he nodded south, "he tore my slacks and I think it'll be a while before I wear another tie." He rubbed at his neck again garnering Kate's attention.

"Jesus, Castle," she swore as she moved the collar of his shirt. In addition to the nick, his throat was red and mottled, like it had been strangled.

"What?" He swallowed and coughed self-consciously. He admitted to himself that his throat and neck were a little raw, now that she'd pointed it out.

She sighed, "You're going to the hospital."

"What, no," he protested and ducked out from under her arm.

She studied him and he could see the moment something in her mind clicked. "Fine, then come back with me to my precinct." His eyes lit up at her suggestion and then quickly narrowed. "I've just got a friend who can look you over and make sure the damage is merely superficial." She lowered her eyes, shyly. "Please? For me? I need to make sure you are healthy enough so you won't back out of our date tomorrow night."

He smiled, but tilted his head. "Seems like pretty selfish reasoning." He hummed, mulling it over, never taking his eyes from hers. He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Okay, I guess…but only," he emphasized, "if it will make you feel better." He stood up and reached for her hand, but she pulled hers back and clasped both behind her back, well out of his reach. Her wide eyes scanned the whereabouts and attention of her coworkers.

Kate caught his puzzled look and then flicked her gaze to her co-workers. A slight headshake and he finally got the silent message.

"My cruiser is parked on West Seventy-Seventh. Are you okay to walk?"

"Yeah…um of course." He smiled and held his arm out. "Lead the way, Detective."

* * *

When they arrived at the precinct he smiled and greeted everyone, adding much to the detective's already overflowing exasperation. On the drive from the park to the precinct, he'd wanted her to use the siren and lights to cut through the traffic, he'd commented on the number of take-out coffee cups that littered her car (to be fair, there was an inordinate number) he'd asked to see her gun, badge, and summons book, as well as had to be admonished from playing with the Taser. She likened him to Randy, the younger brother in the film, 'A Christmas Story' on Christmas morning, rapidly tearing into a giant pile of presents under the overtaxed Christmas tree.

She'd never met anyone like 'Tax King' Castle. Most of the people she knew and associated with were serious and deferential, and had always been so. Her parents had both been attorneys and their friends were attorneys, as well. Except for a short period of time in high school when she rebelled, she was also reserved and then, after her mother died, she withdrew.

Rick Castle was something else, an entirely new creature in Kate Beckett's world. He liked to touch things, ask questions, really: who cares what the exact rate of rotation of the strobe lights are on the bubblegum. He made eye contact and said something to everyone who crossed their path, and even went out of his way to be chivalrous and helpful to most, including her.

He'd been wide-eyed as she guided him to the bullpen and sat him down in the chair next to her desk.

Holding up a hand as one would to train a puppy, she admonished, "Sit there and stay there…" She softened, "please. I'll be right back."

"Okay," he grinned, but she could tell it was difficult for him to stay seated. Luckily his phone rang and he was distracted by having to answer. She shook her head as she reported to her captain.

"Hello?" he whispered into his phone which was cupped in his hands. "Mother? What's wrong…Is Alexis…?"

Kate approached her desk a few moments later just as he ran a hand through his hair. She found herself wanting to do the same.

"No…I know. Yes…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. No…um…just...ask Mel to reschedule my immediate appointments, please. Yes, I'll let you know. I'm fine, I promise you. They just want to check me out." He raised his eyebrows at Kate's stare and then grinned cheekily. "I have to give a statement and maybe…um, press charges?" Castle looked for confirmation and Beckett nodded. "Yes, I will have to press charges. Are you able to collect Alexis before she goes uptown to the office?" He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, thank…thank you, Mother. I'll call you later…I have to go. Yes…no, no honestly I'm fine…" He paused, grimacing while he held his hand over the microphone. "Would you mind reassuring my mother, please Detective?"

Kate raised both eyebrows as he thrust the phone in her direction. "I…" She gulped as she raised the device to her ear. "Hello? Yes. This is Detective Kate Beckett. Yes, ma'am. I assure you he is only slightly…" She stopped abruptly at his frantic cutting off gesture across his throat. Castle then gave her the thumbs up sign. Beckett inhaled and continued, "Mr. Castle is uninjured and perfectly fine. Yes, yes I will. Yes. Goodbye."

Beckett handed him his phone. "Thanks," he sighed. "The absolute last thing you want is hurricane Martha here and she would be if she thought I was hurt."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "So, your mom is a little over-protective?" The tenor of her voice grew increasingly teasing by the end of the question.

"Little? Ha!" he erupted, shaking his head as he held up his hands, scooting forward on the chair. "No, she'd be down here in a minute," he affirmed, stabbing his finger on her desk in emphasis. "Even faster than the New York kind, fussing over me, and taking me home." He pursed his lips and shook his head. "No thanks." He sat back, abruptly aware that his reaction may have been a little excessive, if he could judge by the other officers in the room who were stealing peeks or outright staring in their direction.

Hunching down, he folded his tall frame in on itself, ducking his head. "Sorry."

Kate stared at him. "Do you…live? With. Your. Mother?"

Castle scowled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "No…no: not exactly," he scoffed, unconvincingly at the floor.

"Well, what does that mean?"

"It means she lives with me." He eyes climbed the paramount to hers. "It's a fine distinction in semantics."

"Beckett?" Someone called from the hall. "You do realize that all my regular patients are dead, right?"

The detective took her turn grimacing. "Lanie," she shushed the woman who had just entered the workspace.

"Oh. You're…"

Rick smiled the same smile she saw in the picture of Tax King Castle in the commercial, minus the cartoon crown. "Dr. Parish," he stood and shook her hand. "It's nice to see you again." He tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow in the detective's direction. "Thanks for the referral."

The smile spread across the doctor's face and she sighed, a pleasant mien decorating her features as she presented her hand to Castle. "Your majesty," Lanie articulated drolly with a wink and a head bow.

He squeezed gently and let it go. Castle became uncomfortable under the woman's licentious scrutiny. He ducked his head and smiled shyly, hopeful to be rescued once again by the detective. "Uh…I don't think we'll need your services, doctor. I really am fine," he reiterated the last to the detective.

"Damn…I'll say," Lanie drawled. She blinked after Beckett elbowed her. "Oh…shit, did I say that out loud?" Both of her stunned companions nodded in perfect synchronization.

Beckett blinked and became aware of other eyes watching the proceedings: her friend's palpable attraction to the accountant creating the sideshow without need of a barker.

"Lanie!" Beckett hissed. "Uh, Mr. Castle," she said loudly, "would you go into the break room so Dr. Parrish can check you out." She had never experienced anything instantaneously before: no instant gratification, nor love at first sight, nor immediate satisfaction, even her morning instant oatmeal packet fell short of that claim. She was immediately sorry for her word choice, however, and judging by the blush that had creeped up the accountant's face and the sly, but pleased countenance of her friend, it had not gone unnoticed. "Oh God. You know what I mean…medically."

Lanie grabbed him under his upper arm and yanked him up. "Kate? Um, Detective, I mean…You're coming too, right?" There was actual fear in his eyes.

"I'll be in in a moment," she assured. "Lanie be professional."


	3. Limited Partnership

_**A/N - Hey All!**_

 _ **See? You can trust me. As promised, all polished. Thanks for all the reviews and new followers and for the readers who have added this to their favorites. I'll answer all the reviews, as always, but I wanted to get this posted first. I'll be heading back to Martha's Heart, Blank Page, and Courtship and then I'll be back here again. Thanks so much for reading!**_

 _ **Please enjoy!**_

 _ **~GeekMom**_

* * *

 **Assets**

 **Chapter 3**

 **Limited Partnership**

"Beckett." She wasn't surprised to hear her captain's bid. What surprised her when she turned to look at him was the glint in his eye, a silent chuckle, if she read him right.

"Sir?" She did her best to sound unaffected, but she was. Her heart still hammered every time she closed her eyes and saw him on the ground, the moment she recognized him, the blood on his collar. It had been too long since the last time she felt optimistic about a potential relationship and she didn't want to lose the opportunity in any way.

"A word," he one-word ordered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Beckett inhaled, ignored the tittering hens and furtive glances in and around the bullpen, and walked over to join her captain by his door.

"Who is Doctor Parrish with?" He nodded towards the break room.

"He's, uh Richard Castle, sir." Her captain raised his eyebrows, a look on his face she couldn't decipher, but he didn't interject, so she continued, "A victim and witness to our suspect's flight in Central Park this morning. He refused medical treatment on the scene and I thought it best to bring him in, get his statement, and get him attention."

"Well, he has gotten the attention," he observed while indicating his reports craning and gawking toward the small room.

"Yes sir."

"I trust that Dr. Parrish will conduct the rest of her examination professionally."

"Yes sir: I'll see to it." She took a step away and then turned. "To be fair, sir, both Dr. Parrish and I know the victim," she confessed. "He's our accountant."

"I see," he mused as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That wouldn't have anything to do with you bringing him here, would it?" Montgomery raised an eyebrow.

"I only wanted what was best for the victim and most expedient for us, sir."

"Okay, Beckett. Just wrap it up."

"Yes sir," she acknowledged and scurried to see what damage control was needed in the break room.

* * *

"Damn," Lanie whispered and followed it with a low whistle. "Are you sure this was done with a neck tie?"

"Um…yes? I probably would remember if the guy had put something else around my neck."

She leaned back and pursed her lips. "Well, Mr. Castle, do you like wearing ties?"

"Not really, no," he confessed. He could at one time in his life stay in his pajamas all day and still work if he wanted. He grinned at the kindled memory and then sighed, "But it's a part of the expectation in my profession." He shook his head. "Most people won't trust me with their money if I look like…well like an unemployed author."

Lanie frowned at his odd example. "Well," she took out a pad and wrote as she continued speaking, "I am going to recommend that you see your own doctor, take it easy and let these bruises heal, that you not wear neckties for the next couple of weeks, and that you take our girl out there on a date."

"Okay…yay, yay…what?" He blinked at the smirking doctor, perplexed.

"Even when I was giving you the full on treatment out there, you still only had eyes for her. Either I'm losing my touch or you've got it bad for Kate Beckett."

"I'm…I'm sorry?"

"Don't be, Mr. Castle…I know I haven't lost any moves, but I do know a lost cause when I see it."

"Rick," he corrected and they smiled at each other. He was beginning to like the doctor.

She leaned in close to his ear, under the pretense of checking his neck. "Rick," she whispered, "I recommended you to Kate for more than your talent with numbers." She tilted her head conspiratorially. "Understand? Don't let me down."

He grinned. "I'll do my best," he promised just as Kate entered.

"Your best what?"

"Um…to take care of himself," Lanie explained, not missing a beat, but in a long-suffering tone. To Kate she reported, "I gave him some Tylenol and a topical analgesic for the fabric burns and bruises." She closed up her bag. "Take care, Mr. Castle. I'll see you next year." And with a final flick of her wrist, she left.

"I'll look forward to it, Dr. Parrish," he answered pleasantly. "Thanks for saving me," he gulped to Kate when the doctor was out of earshot.

"From whom: Lanie, or the perp?" she asked. He nodded toward the door. She sat next to him on the couch. "No need: she was only reminding me that I shouldn't let you get away." Knocking into his shoulder, she added, "I haven't told her that we already have a date. Sorry."

"Classic wing man," he whispered with unabashed admiration in his voice, while gazing out of the door she exited.

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a moment. "Seriously, Castle: are you okay?"

"Yeah," he returned. "Well enough for tomorrow night." He turned his palm over on the seat between them.

She looked at it for a moment and Rick thought that maybe he had misread, but then she suddenly grinned and placed her hand in his and squeezed it as she silently agreed. "Well, we better get your statement or Captain Montgomery will have my…"

"Beckett?"

His eyes met hers, both sets embarrassed like they had been caught necking behind the bleachers at a high school dance. Kate rolled her eyes and dropped his hand. "Speak of the devil."

Castle sat forward. "Did you say his name is Montgomery?"

"Yes."

"Roy Montgomery?" He stood, straightened his clothes, and then stretched and bobbed, looking through blinds on the windows like a short man at the very back of tall parade onlookers.

"Yes…" She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"If he's the same Roy Montgomery, I think I've played poker with him." He grabbed his jacket and tie, and walked out of the room. Beckett waited long enough to catch her breath, which turned out to be just long enough to hear him familiarly exclaim, "Roy? Hey, it's Rick: Rick Castle, from Bob Weldon's poker game a couple of months back."

She got back to the bullpen just as Montgomery pulled him into his office by the handshake and shut the door.

Her future date knew her boss? Her future date knew her boss. Huh.

Sitting down she twirled her pencil, almost poking herself in the eye with the well-gnawed eraser, glanced at the closed door, rearranged her mother's parade of elephant figurines on her desk by a quarter of an inch, and then back again…twice, glanced at the closed door, squared the stack of post-it note pads and organized them by rainbow order: Roy G… _'Roy,'_ and glanced at the closed door, behind which her boss and potential boyfriend were reconnecting.

Kate Beckett preferred to have her life compartmentalized: grouped and separate just like her dinner plate as a child. The green beans could not mix with the mashed potatoes lest the world end in fiery apoplectic chaos. Her work life didn't bleed into her personal life and vice versa. Rick Castle's mashed potatoes were practically suffocating her green beans.

She never dated the men she met on the job, even though she'd been attracted to a few. Her work friends were, excepting Lanie, Espo, and Ryan, more like acquaintances. She didn't feel the need to get chummy, trade recipes and Christmas gifts with people who could be gone…transferred or worse, at any time. Kate did not need any more heartache. She kept her distance and kept everyone at a safe distance as well. Wishing her co-workers a happy birthday was about as sociable as she could muster.

She conveniently overlooked breaking all of those self-imposed rules for the off the books investigation she ran into her mother's murder, on her own time: personal time, from her guest room. In her mind, that wasn't crossing lines: it was just the way that it had to be.

"Hey," he whispered right behind her ear. Kate startled and practically head butted him. She twisted her neck to look at him.

"Sorry," he said, but his expression wasn't contrite. She raised a doubtful eyebrow. "No, I am. I had no idea that this was Roy's precinct. That's so cool." He sat in the chair next to her desk, but did not stop moving, excitement crackled through his being.

Roy: he called her boss Roy.

"Anyway, I have to get to work."

She glanced at his neck, surprising herself by going against her typical M.O. of keeping her distance, and taking in a breath, began to protest but he raised his hand.

"I can't reschedule any more appointments this close to tax day." She opened her mouth again, but he continued.

"I'm fine and actually: is it weird that I'm grateful to my buddy Dennis that I can't wear ties for a while? Probably," he answered himself and Kate wondered if she really needed to be there. "But I'll take it…not the assault, just…well, you know." He stood and like a magician with a hankie, dramatically stuffed the silk garment into his pocket, smirking. He looked like a kid who'd been given an extra recess.

"Uh…no wait: what about your…"

"Statement?" he finished, rather smugly. "Roy, uh…Captain Montgomery took it," he chirped. He leaned over her, placing one hand on her desk between her and her keyboard and the other on the back of her chair, encompassing her. "We're still on for tomorrow, right?" he spoke low, while surreptitiously surveying the room, his voice not much more than a husk: a warm breath of a feeling. "I've got a surprise. This will be so cool." He straightened leaving an imprint of his cologne in the air like the dying remnants of a firework, the embers falling silently in the space he recently occupied. Kate closed her eyes, dizzy.

"Until tomorrow, Detective?" he sang as he headed for the open elevator. He smiled warmly just before the doors slid closed, revealing the hallmark of 'NYPD' and '12th Precinct' etched onto the familiar doors.

"Yeah, um…yes." She returned and waved numbly. What the hell had just happened?

* * *

At a few minutes before seven the next evening, Castle walked into a comfortable, homey restaurant: more of a diner. His sense of smell immediately aroused by the blissful aromas of grilling meat and whatever happened to be in the fryer, which roused his taste buds and the two senses dueled for his attention and affection. He had his choice of 1950s era Formica and aluminum topped tables paired with primary colored vinyl chairs, booths clad in the same motif or the counter that curved around the grill and delectable dessert case. He noted the liberal use of whipped cream on the various sweets, his favorite topping, by far. There was an assortment of still life, scenic, and portraits on the walls all reminiscent of Norman Rockwell's style and composition, along with optimistic aphorisms on rustic cedar shingling or small chalkboards. On his way to claim a booth in the back, he walked by a table of six engaged in a lively and good-natured conversation, laughter peppering the exchange. The four uniformed cops caught his attention immediately and he smiled amiably. Not only did he respect the men and women who put on any uniform in service, but also he'd had his run-ins with law enforcement in the past. It would never hurt to be friendly. As his gaze wandered over their company, he recognized the two in plains clothes as the same two detectives from the park and he smiled ardently.

"Uh, I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, stopping short and turning to them. "But, I just want to thank you."

The Hispanic cop raised his eyebrow while he stared into Rick's soul and the others glanced at each other.

"For what," the younger detective asked.

"Oh, um…" he swallowed as he shoved his hands further into his pockets. "I was at the park…uh, today."

The other detective chuckled, "Oh yeah, it's Rambo." His amusement was chorused by the men seated. The female officer diffidently dropped her lashes and concentrated on her plate of onion rings. Rick made a mental note to order the fried delicacy. How good a restaurant's onion rings was one of his gauges on the restaurant's quality, a touchstone of sorts.

Smiling, he raised his hands. "I just…I am truly very grateful," he said ducking his head. "I'll leave you to your meal…"

"Hey, um…" the younger detective called, snapping his fingers. "It's Castle? Right?" Castle nodded. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Fight the guy."

"Yeah man, that was dangerous," the other detective agreed.

"Oh…well, just…I was in a position to help you, so I did," Castle said unassumingly, his gaze dropped to their tabletop. He lifted his eyes, smiled warmly again, and opened his mouth to bid them a good evening, but stopped: the tension fell on the gathering like a wet blanket, the woolen kind: stiff, itchy and too heavy to move. He wondered what it was that he said wrong or how he might have given the wrong impression. He was pretty good at sticking his foot in it: either his mouth or a pile of shit: practiced in both varieties to almost an art form.

The partners shared a glance. Three of the uniformed cops, who all comported themselves comfortably, as if they'd been on the job for a while, stared at the speckled geographic designs on the aluminum-trimmed table, or simply were avoiding his searching eyes. The fourth, a young woman whom, except for the gun on her belt, Castle would have sworn was still in high school with Alexis, watched him in something he would only term as awe, even as unbelievable as that sounded to his own mind.

"Man…" the Hispanic began, meeting his partner's eyes again, pressed his lips to his teeth, and lifting his chin, assessing Castle, he nodded. "That's all right. Thanks." He stood and held out his hand, a half of a smirk on his face, but his eyes sparkled in amusement.

Relieved and a little suspicious that he'd just been played, Rick clasped his hand. "You're welcome: um, it was the least I could do."

His partner stood and shook his hand, as well. "Ryan," he said, indicating himself, "Esposito, Muniz, Hammett, Valerio, L.T., and Hastings," introducing everyone at the table, as well, each in turn smiled, nodded or waved, or held up a coffee mug in salute.

The uncertain rime evaporated and Castle felt a warmth from their inclusive and appreciative acknowledgments. Castle waved, shyly, beaming when he recognized L.T., the officer who helped him at the park, who gave him a thumbs up and a knowing nod.

"So, Rambo, what brings you downtown? Isn't your office on the west side?"

"Yeah…yes," he began, rubbing his hands on his suit jacket. "I'm meeting…"

The door opened and the unspoken subject of his sentence walked in the door. His whole countenance brightened visibly upon seeing her, like a flame given oxygen. Likewise, her eyes shone finding his first, but the light then dimmed when she took in to whom he was talking. Her smile never got an opportunity to warm and bloom and, like a tender rose pelted by an unexpected early frost, withered.

"Detective Beckett," came the teasing singsong from Esposito.

Kate inhaled and occupied all of her height. "Guys," she greeted crisply, all business. "Hastings, Muniz: nice work on the Boyer homicide." The two officers mumbled their thanks to her for the taciturn praise. Castle wondered if she had any true work friends.

He couldn't really talk: he ran a one-man shop and so the only work friends he had were his assistant, Melissa, whom he paid, so that stretched the term and feeling of friendship a bit. Other than her, he had a handful of consultants he could call on if he needed clarification on tax law. He'd often wondered how many friends he'd have if he were a successful author. Long ago, he'd been to the parties; he'd seen how popular, popular authors could be, although, admittedly, he stopped receiving those invitations over a decade ago.

He looked between the table of smirking cops and the stiffening Beckett and tilted his head. It didn't take a genius to decipher the situation. "Detective Beckett? Thanks for meeting me here." He stuck his hand out, all business-like. She stared at him. Castle wet his lips and glancing at their audience before directing his gaze back toward her, he continued, "I was downtown doing an errand for my mother." He rolled his eyes melodramatically and put upon. "I appreciate your moving our meeting here. Did you bring the supporting paperwork and receipts I asked for?" She nodded, still mute, and held out her old worn leather haversack to him awkwardly. Castle smiled. "Excellent." He turned his attention to the gaping jaws and skeptical faces at the table. "Gentlemen? Miss?" he nodded to the gawkers. "It was a pleasure meeting you, but I need to keep this appointment with the detective. It's my busy time, you know." He turned, but grinned at Kate and reaching in his jacket's breast pocket, he dropped a couple of business cards on the table. "If anyone of you ever need my services: I'd be honored and it'd be my pleasure to offer a discount." With that, he confidently led the way through the tables to the booth in the back that he had scoped when he entered.

* * *

They remained silent until they placed their orders. Kate lifted her eyes to his as she slid her hands, palms down, under her thighs.

"You know, they're still watching," she whispered.

Castle smiled. "I know." He played with the straw in his water glass. "Why don't you pull out your file? They were almost finished with their meals when I came in."

Kate nodded and turned her attention to her satchel. She kept her concentration and focus in the bowels of the bag. It reminded Rick of Mary Poppins and her carpetbag. Suddenly, she snapped her head up to face him. "Was that a bribe?"

"What?"

"Offering a discount."

"No," he answered carefully, "Just…appreciation."

Kate lifted her eyebrow, teasing. "Then I suppose that I'll receive the same discount."

He inhaled, pursed his lips, and shook his head, as he answered, "No, I'm sorry Detective. I took you as a client before the events of yesterday." She frowned. "Besides, how could I discount nothing? I'm pretty good at math…"

Their waitress brought their meals. She'd recommended the cheeseburger and fries basket with a strawberry shake: her meal. He agreed except ordered a chocolate shake and the onion rings. He couldn't remember the last time a first - sort of - date didn't include some form of alcohol.

"What did you mean by nothing?" she probed as she dipped her fry into the shake and brought it to her mouth.

He grimaced. "I don't charge friends and family for my services."

"I'm not either of those and don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

Castle stared at her for a moment. "I'll have to take your word for it. Maybe you're not right now, but Kate?" He reached for her hand resting on a rubber-banded wad of receipts. She scanned the restaurant. "They left a few moments ago." He waited until she turned back to him. "Kate, I really want to be your friend and maybe…maybe more."

"More?"

He smiled and his whole face lit from within. She thought his eyes couldn't get any bluer.

"Yeah." He waved his hand between them. "I don't do this…" She idly dragged a fry through the puddle of ketchup on her plate. "I mean mix, uh…business with…" She lifted the fry to her lips and he really wanted to be that fry. He licked his lips, almost tasting the crystals of salt that clung to her bottom lip. _'Pleasure,'_ he finished to himself. "You're just…you have to know already: you're extraordinary." She raised her eyes to his coyly from under her lashes and smiled.

"Extraordinary, huh. Okay, Castle." She bit her lip. "Friends."

They finished their meal and he stuffed her papers and receipts into his bag after poking fun at her disorganization. He won the argument over who would pay the bill, because he could claim it as a business expense. She decided not to argue further with the Tax King. He helped her into her coat and escorted her from the restaurant.

* * *

Walking her home, he tentatively took her hand.

"God, your hands are warm," she giggled as she walked closer to him.

"And yours are like ice." Encompassing her hands, he lifted them to his lips and expelled a warm moist breath between his fingers, warming her hand. Kate watched his eyes watch her as he blew another breath into his palms. He wore the mantel of a boy who had gotten in trouble before and knew he was getting away with something. She felt herself stiffen and she quickly averted her eyes to the pavement. He shook his head, but kept his eyes on her. "You need better gloves."

She looked up sideways at him from under the curtain of brown, grinned and knocked into him. He gifted her with an equally mischievous grin and nudged her back. They walked on for a few more minutes, he pointed out different people and what they might be doing or where they were going before she stopped them short.

"Hey Castle: what were you going to tell me, you know from yesterday with Montgomery."

He smiled the 'I'm so excited smile.' The same one he had displayed at the precinct the day before, but punctuated with caution and reticence. He took in their location. "Do you want to get a coffee?" he asked, nodding toward coffee shop.

The question caught her off guard. "Castle?" she questioned.

"I'd just like to sit while we talk," he said quietly, while holding the door of the little shop open for her.

She found a table for two away from the front door and a few minutes later he brought their coffees and sat down opposite her.

She held the fragrant brew up to her mouth, and hadn't realized how cold her nose was until she felt the warmth of the escaping steam on her face. He watched her in awed fascination. She made drinking coffee an art form; sensual or forbidden like he shouldn't be witnessing her reunion with the rich liquid deity: he felt truly voyeuristic.

She took an experimental sip and then beamed. "You remembered."

"It was only a couple of days ago," he dismissed.

"No, thank you. Really."

"Cheeseburgers and fries and now a cup of coffee: either you're a cheap date or easy to please."

She raised a challenging eyebrow, grinned cheekily, and denied, "I'm neither. You pay attention and notice things. You don't care about the type of place, just that I wanted to go there. I haven't been with anyone that cared enough about what I wanted lately and I'm grateful."

He reached across the small linen covered table and placed his hand on hers. "What do you want, Kate?"

She just stared at him. He was sincere, as sincere and true as the sapphire of his eyes. She flipped her hand under his, melding her palm to his and inhaled as she blinked. She looked up from the napkin and caught him smirking and she narrowed her eyes.

"I want you to tell me what happened with Captain Montgomery," she said as she lifted her head defiantly.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Too soon?" She nodded. "Okay: cheeseburgers and fries it is. We'll save the wine and cheese for later."

She nodded again and added, "Definitely cheesy cheese, Castle." Her eyes sparkled.

"You wound me, Detective."

Truth be told, Kate could have jumped in with him, right there, right then, but she wanted to do this right. There was something appealing about the accountant, safe. Sure, he had looks. It made her question why he was alone. Was he a jerk? Not so far. An idiot? Not that she could discern. She'd half been waiting to see what monsters the guy was hiding.

"Castle: Montgomery."

"Right," he blurted as he uneasily cast his gaze to his spoon sitting idly and behaving itself on his plate. He moved his thumb and the spoon flipped to the tabletop, spilling the drops of lingering macchiato and staining the linen cloth. "Damn it," he muttered as he blotted the spill.

"Castle." Her hand covered his and he slowly lifted his eyes to hers. She wore an amused expression. "Stop stalling."

"Right," he acknowledged as he placed the napkin on the table. Inhaling, as if bracing himself, he began. Kate closed her eyes and listened for the telltale reveal of the monster, the thing that would make it impossible to continue seeing him.

"I'm…" he swallowed. "I used to be a writer." The words spewed out of his mouth.

Relieved, Kate opened her eyes and tilted her head. "Really?" Her gaze intense, she wore a thrilled smile and all of her attention was undeniably bid to him.

"Yeah," he confirmed, feeling safer by the minute.

"That is so cool," she crooned, her excitement and relief palpable in the warmth of the small shop. "Like novels? How many? What kind?"

Rick blinked. He felt the warmth of her attention unraveling the knot in his chest. He never shared this part of his life with anyone. This was his great failure: the decimation of his lifelong dreams: the bleak and wasted battleground of his soul. He'd turned his back on his dreams, stuffed them inside a file drawer along with the rejections and dismissals: long kept out of sight and mind in order to do right by his daughter, for her happiness and security. Kate's interest was essential. She had ignited a long dead spark and it was important that she understand the risk he was about to take. "Yes: novels: three, well actually, one that's been published, one fiction novel…a thriller."

Her eyes lit. "Wow. What are the names? Can I read them? Are they under your name? Why did you stop?"

He held his hands up in front of him and smiled, indulgently. "You were probably too young to read it when they came out," he swallowed and directed his gaze to the abandoned spoon. "But I can get you a copy, if you'd like. I have copies of the unpublished two, as well."

She grabbed his hand again. "Really?" His eyes snapped back up to hers. "I would, I really would like that, Castle…thanks…and, just for the record: you're not that much older than I am."

He tilted his head and under his gaze, she confessed, "Okay, I may have looked up your DMV record."

He shook his finger at her. "Why Detective Beckett," he intoned, smirk in place. "Wouldn't that be considered an abuse of power?"

She giggled at his mock outrage and shook her head, happy that his reticence and whatever reason he had for it had dissipated, like the fog on a chilly morning. She couldn't remember the last time she giggled with a date. She liked the effervescent, weightless feeling of letting go. She began rubbing tiny circles and patterns on his hand. Humming contentedly, she asked, "So what does this have to do with your poker buddy Montgomery?"

He stopped and inhaled. That he never talked about his failures was becoming a compromised personal rule, when it came to talking to her anyway. "Well, uh…the other night…after you left, I um…" Still his voice was quiet when he spoke.

"What?" Kate leaned forward, attentive, as if her life depended on his next words. Her curiosity thrilled and terrified him at once.

"I really needed to write, um, creatively, again." He flattened his lips against his teeth and engaged in some lip mistreatment of his own. "God, Kate, I haven't felt like that in years." His shoulders dropped, the tension giving way, finally to relief.

"That's great, Castle." She squeezed his hand. "What brought on the urge? It was the complex tax situation I gave you, wasn't it?" She raised an eyebrow, nodded, and grinned slyly. "Was it…taxing?" She giggled again.

"God," he said, rolling his eyes and for the life of him, couldn't figure out why he had been so concerned about this conversation. She made the hard things easy. "I've never heard that one," he said sarcastically as he chuckled, before he pulled her other hand into the care of his own. "No," he answered her quietly, suddenly earnest. "It was you, Kate."

She dropped her eyes and smiled as she bit her bottom lip. He decided that he could spend a million years and he still wouldn't come up with an adequate way of describing the feelings that shy and seductive little move invoked.

"That's…that's amazing, Castle."

He stared at her, his gaze dropping to the indescribable molested lip.

"And Montgomery? How does he figure into this?"

The out-of-time and space bubble broken, he dropped her hand and took a sip of his coffee. "I told him that I was writing again: that I'd been inspired." It was the first conversation of many of the things he never talked about in just a few days. He played with the spoon again. "I, uh…asked if I could come to the precinct some time, after the month end of course, and learn about procedure…and you."

"Oh," she breathed and stopped mid sip.

"Is that…is it okay?"

He was so uncertain, so different from the confident, talented businessman she'd met a few days prior or even earlier that night. She felt herself withdraw as certainly as she retrieved her hand under the pretense of wiping it on her napkin. She didn't mix work and personal aspects of her life.

"Kate?"

She attacked her lip again before mercifully releasing it while searching his eyes. He'd never felt as exposed as he did in that moment.

"Can you…I need…I need some time to think about it, okay?" She watched the shutters fall down around him as he closed himself off. She didn't want to hurt him, but she didn't want to be hurt either.

Castle searched her eyes for a moment. He had known he was taking a chance. "Of course," he said tersely as he signaled for the check.

He ushered her out the door and started walking toward her building again. Kate caught up and hooked her arm in his. She might as well as been hanging onto a fence post. He didn't try to shake her off, but didn't reciprocate or pull her closer either, as he'd done earlier.

Castle kept his gaze straight ahead. His mind worked on how he could convince her, how to let her know how very connected he felt to her. But he also warred with himself, because even though he'd only known her for a couple of days, she found a part of him that was dead and he thought buried and breathed life back into it, revived it and he couldn't let that go. He wanted it all: a personal relationship and inspiration.

Bending his arm, he tugged her closer and put his hand over hers. He stopped. The orange of the street light combined with the intermittent green neon of a tattoo parlor sign giving them both an wraith-like pallor.

"If it's a choice between you seeing me either at work or outside of work," he began, but she placed a finger across his lips.

"I can see what opening up cost you."

He turned his head to her, startled.

She smiled. "I'm a detective, remember?" He tilted his head. "I'd like to see where you and I go without complicating this…yet."

"Yet. You mean there's a possibility?"

"I mean I want to see you again and I want us to get to know each other. I want to know why telling me about your books was difficult."

"And I want to know why my shadowing you would be."

"It's still very new…"

"But it doesn't feel new…to me."

She felt dizzy. "No, me either." She walked to the steps of her building. "Let me think about it?" she grinned and leaned forward so he raised his hands to her waist to keep her from tilting too far. She grabbed his shoulders. She felt right in his arms and he swallowed, shaken. "I really want to get to know you," she whispered above his ear, her soft small breath warming more of his chilled body than should have been possible.

"So do I, but I want to know all of you."

His gaze was so intense. She should have been terrified, turned, and run as far away from him as possible. Shut this down, a tiny part of her brain screamed. For the first time, though, she felt safe enough to ignore it.

She blinked and smiled shyly. "Let me think about it."

"Okay," he agreed. She turned on the stoop, but he held her waist. "Kate?"

She turned back and caught the question in his eyes. Kate smiled and Rick stepped up onto the step and kissed her goodnight.


	4. Divesting and Investing

_**A/N - Betcha' wrote this one off. No and never think I won't finish any of my stories.**_

 ** _I'm not going to apologize or explain about life. I will remind you all that I won't post until I'm satisfied that the chapter advances the story I hope to convey. I hope you find it was worth the wait._**

 ** _Enjoy,_**

 ** _~GeekMom_**

* * *

 **Assets**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Divesting and Investing**

Warm.

Warm and tingly, if the truth was told. Even the wind tunnels created by the high-rise canyons funneling the April breezes, which, if judging by his fellow pedestrians' level of bundling; of their hands jammed in pockets, red noses and blue lips. Despite all of that doggedly recalled and validated resonances of March's lions' roar, he was warm. He remained blissfully oblivious through the coldest part of his walk home – that blast of artic air you encounter after emerging from the subway; the one that stole your breath – couldn't cool the incubated bubble he'd occupied since their kiss.

He opened the door of his apartment and it burst.

"You're home later than I anticipated. Are you all right? I thought you were meeting a client." Martha craned her neck around the pillar next to the armchair to see her son come through the front door.

"You didn't have to wait up." He checked the time on his watch: just after eleven, and then shivered, the tremor a solid five on the Richter scale.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "After the events of yesterday?" She eyed his neck, her tone incredulous.

He continued, as she knew he would. "I did meet a client," he explained and held his briefcase up as evidence. He walked toward his home office. "And I'm fine, Mother. I told you last night, my injuries, if you could call them that, were merely superficial."

"Injuries, nonetheless," she argued. He sighed and continued his escape. "I kept a plate warm for you: it's in the oven," she called to his retreating back.

Rick cringed and turned back to face her. "I'm sorry, Mother. I should have told you, this was a dinner meeting."

"You don't usually mix business with pleasure."

"No…" he paused and closed his eyes. "Dinner not pleasure," he corrected, "and this was different. This…tonight was the only the time that the client could meet."

"Who is this client who gets this special treatment?"

His mother's nosiness was only exceeded by her meddling. He pursed his lips and debated upon telling her to mind her own business or lie.

"It's the lady detective," his accommodating daughter added as she bounced down the stairs, crashing into him. "Hi, Daddy," she grinned.

"Hey Pumpkin," he answered, sending his daughter a glare and then jerking his head over his shoulder at his mother. He probably should not have sought her alliance against his mother's meddling when Alexis had been a kid, but he had and it had been the two of them, united in a common cause: to limit the effects of the Martha Rodgers practice of unreserved and unasked for interference, which had multiplied exponentially since she had moved in with them. There was safety in numbers.

"But it was the detective, wasn't it?" She stretched up on her tiptoe and kissed his cheek with a not so innocent or repentant look in her eye.

He exaggeratedly checked his watch and narrowed his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"Mel told me when she sent your schedule to let me know when she would need me," she said sweetly.

Rick frowned. Why were the women in his life conspiring against him? He sighed and hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward his office, figuring that a tactical retreat would be the best option. "I've got some files to look over before tomorrow morning. Good night, Mother." He paused and shook his head. Raising an accusatory eyebrow at Alexis as she slid in next to her grandmother, he compressed his lips against his tightly clenched teeth. "Good night, Benedict."

"Oh Richard, don't be so theatrical," Martha waved him away as Alexis sheepishly smiled, folding herself into the cove of her grandmother's arms and self-righteousness.

As he closed his door, he heard his mother's undaunted whisper to his daughter, "So tell me about this lady detective."

* * *

Tax King Castle leaned back in his chair and reaching up he perched his glasses on the top of his head and rubbed his eyes. He squinted at his phone: a few blurry minutes after midnight on April the sixteenth. Done. Well, he was done in the sense of the normal filers, not with the procrastinators who had needed extensions and other special circumstances that would cost the taxpayer both, in penalties, and in his fees. His magic cost money.

He stretched and cracked his neck and back before he stood and out of habit, grabbed for his coffee cup, but hesitated. He should close up, go home, and get some much-needed rest, but either the caffeine or adrenaline from his last second wind had him wanting to stay. He'd been good; he'd been disciplined and he had refrained, with difficulty, from opening the word file for nearly two weeks. His writing had doggedly remained mute for years, but now it called to him like a rekindled love affair and he could no longer ignore its seduction.

He stepped into the break room and fixed himself a latte and, while he steamed and stirred, he finally gave himself permission to immerse himself in her world, imagining dialogue and scenes, descriptions and plot: the imagined scenes as real to him as his espresso machine. He grabbed the coffee mug and headed back to his office, stopping short at the end of the hallway that led to the reception area.

The lights were off but the blue green glow of a computer screen remained. Thinking his assistant must have left her monitor on, he swung his head around the doorframe.

"Mel?" He scrunched his forehead in a scowl. "What are you still –"

"Doing here?"

He couldn't help but grin. Melissa James, his assistant and lifesaver, had been with him since he opened his doors, indeed before then, truthfully. She literally hung up his shingle, against his objections when he caught her on the very top of a stepladder. She took it upon herself to hang it up after she'd found the workman crying over his wife who had passed away only a week earlier, but had to continue to work because he had two small children to support. Mel had given him his fee plus enough so he could stay home with his kids for another week. She convinced Castle that they needed an on-call handyman and Lem had been with them, part-time and on-call, ever since.

Once Castle realized that she had given Lem everything that she had, and so to preserve her pride, he had asked her to work overtime, thereby, he in turn could make sure she had what she needed. Mel watched out for him as well. She made sure he ate during the long hours he'd worked, had become a pseudo-mother figure to Alexis, a sounding board for Castle, and the glue that kept the place together. He wouldn't have remembered to pay the utility bills without her and would have been running his business from a castle of cardboard boxes on skid row instead of a modest, but comfortable, office space on the Upper West Side.

"Yeah," he flipped his left wrist. "You need to go home. Filings been done and there's nothing that you're doing now that won't wait until –"

"Waiting for you, boss."

"Waiting? For me? Waiting for what?"

She sighed. "Your mother asked me to lookout–"

His brows furrowed as he narrowed his eyes. "My mother?"

She had sense enough to look chastised at his tone, but lifted her hands in surrender as she continued her defense. "Yes, she's concerned about you ever since the incident." Castle rolled his eyes: 'the incident' had been what his mother had dramatically dubbed when Castle had been held hostage in the park.

"I'm a grown man and don't call it that. It just validates her histrionics and compulsion to be over-protective."

"Yes, you are a grown man with a mother who loves you." He scoffed. "She does, you know. She may love you in a smothering, over-bearing way, but she loves you." Despite the dim light, he could see her eyes twinkle. She stood then and, much in the same way Rick had, stretched and cracked her settled, stiff bones and joints. "Look, she's worried about you. She says that since the park, you've been secretive, stand-offish, and getting home late–"

He sneered. "Tax season," he reminded as he spread his arms and indicated their office space.

"Later than that…or, um…not at all?" She had the good taste to look embarrassed. Mel was a friend, but still his employee.

"Jesus." He rubbed his hand down over his face. "Grown…man," he repeated.

Ignoring him, she persevered, "She said that she feels left out of your life, Rick, like she doesn't know you anymore. She's concerned that the inci…" She smiled and having caught herself, continued, "Concerned that since the park, it has changed you."

She was right and so had his mother been for that sake. He had changed, but it was neither the park nor the incident at the park. He and Kate, although they hadn't seen each other since that first date, talked almost daily: a quick chat during her breaks or in between his client appointments, or, more often, a late night call, resulting in him sleeping on the couch in the break room instead of making the trek home during the witching hours in the city. They told each other about their days, although he knew he had been much more interested in her day, her battles as a detective with the scum of the streets, than she could ever be about his battles with the tax code despite the fact that she seemed rapt and fascinated by his mundane and uneventful life. She had laughed while twirling her hair and gave him all the gory details, but only when he shared gory details of his own. He'd taken to giving her a nightly laundry list of the things people tried to claim as deductions. From pole dancing classes to recreational drugs to therapeutic sex with prostitutes and as fun as that all seemed, none were deductible. His favorite from all his years' experience though, had to be the man who hired an arsonist to burn his failing furniture store down and received five hundred thousand dollars in insurance money as a result. Unsatisfied with his ill-gotten gain, the man went ahead and listed ten thousand dollars for 'consulting services' during his initial interview with Castle. When Rick pressed him for the details of the transaction, the truth came out that his 'consultant' turned out to be a paid arsonist.

"I've been busy and it has nothing to do with the incident." He mimicked air quotes by dipping his first and middle fingers as he spoke the last word. He added an eye roll in pure exasperation.

"Just–"

"Mel?"

"Well, I've noticed it, too. It's the only reason I agreed, Rick. You look like hell. You look like you're sick."

He pursed his lips, but sighed. He was exhausted, but no more so than any other year. Maybe he had been sacrificing his rest, but he couldn't ignore his attraction to Kate and if late night, sometimes all night, phone calls permitted him to keep talking to her, than that was a choice and sacrifice he had made. He'd purposefully left his mother and daughter in the dark about his late night activities. He hadn't told anyone except Kate that he'd been writing again.

"Look, I appreciate your concern, but as I have explained to my mother, I am fine. Now, go home before I wonder who is going to pay for the overtime: me or my mother."

He leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of him as she called her husband, gathered her things, and shot him looks waffling between properly chastised and concern. He shook his head and waved her off as she waved from the passenger seat of her husband's car. Her husband, Mitch, shot him an evil glare and he couldn't blame the man: being nearly one in the morning.

* * *

"Hey."

"Hey," he answered, blowing out a long breath.

She paused during which he could hear her sheets and blankets rustle. She twisted to see the clock. "Oh: it's late…well, later than usual.

"How…," he unsuccessfully suppressed a yawn. "Jeez." He inhaled and blew it out, creating a whistle through the phone. "How are you?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah," "Just tired, I guess. Did I wake you?"

"No, I was reading. Oh that's right: it's the fifteenth. So you're done then?"

He leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining her propped up in her bed, the sheet draped over her knees, her bedside table softly lighting her from the right. He had never seen her bedroom or her apartment, for that matter. He inhaled and opened his eyes, curbing the fantasy. "Not done, but with the bulk of it, yeah. I'm not going to complain about my job. It's secured a comfortable living for me and my daughter, and her education is taken care of, unless she ends up at Oxford or MIT or something like that."

"And it affords you the opportunity to take care of your mom."

He sighed again.

"Rick?"

"Yeah, my mom. It affords her the opportunity to meddle in my life whenever she likes."

Kate sat up. "Are you all right? Seriously?"

He could almost picture her frown, the crease between her eyes gaining prominence, adorably. It showed up when she felt concern, exasperation, frustration, or when she intensely concentrated.

He sat up and leaned forward, jostling his mouse. His computer screen came back to life, brighter than he recalled and he squinted, sliding his glasses from the top of his head back into place, and wincing as the nose pads settled on the callouses on the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine, but I am about to be better, I think. You know what?"

"What?"

"It's the sixteenth of April. I want to see you again. When are you off?"

"I'm supposed to work the early shift tomorrow…well, today," she amended as she arched her neck to double check the clock on her bedside table. "At seven, so I should be home by five – if we don't catch a case."

He pulled up his calendar and a reminder popped onto the screen, flashing in neon colors, telling him to go home. Startled, it made him jump and slosh his coffee. "Jesus," he cried, mopping the tan liquid rapidly seeping into his blotter. He muttered a few choice curses.

"Rick?"

"Sorry – just more unsought and unwanted support, advice, interference – whatever," he rubbed his eyes and then reset his password. "So," he continued, "tomorrow night? Have dinner with me?"

"Dinner…okay: where?"

"Do you like Italian?"

She grinned and realized she had been twirling a lock of her hair around her index finger. Capturing her lower lip to prevent a girlish giggle, she nodded. During a previous late night phone call, earlier that week, he'd made her laugh and giggle like a schoolgirl. He'd been relentless in teasing her ever since.

"Kate?"

Realizing that he couldn't see her nod, she answered, "Almost as much as I like Chinese," while slapping her palm to her face.

"That will be the night after next, then."

His voice had taken on the quality and timber she had begun to crave. Dark and soft like rich melted chocolate or a luxurious silk scarf gently kissing her shoulders. She settled back on her pillow after a moment's hesitation, relinquishing the guilt and accepting the pleasure he gave her simply by speaking. She felt lifted and supported like Pocahontas in the musical number 'Colors of the Wind.' Letting the warmth of his words wrap around her much the same way his writing had. She relaxed and trusted that he would keep her afloat and realized that he trusted her completely, as well, when Castle had sent a copy of his published book along with the other two manuscripts after, he confessed, an entire day and night of debate on whether or not he should. His writing had been rejected by many people, publishers, his own mother, and it hurt him more than he let on, but Kate's opinion, Kate's opinion mattered.

She closed her eyes and sighed, "I'm working the night after."

He could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Well, then it will be the next time you can make it."

Grinning, but with her eyes still closed, she imagined him sitting in his bed, no shirt, a soft light profiling one side of his strong jaw and nose while leaving the rest in shadows.

"You sound pretty self-assured that there will be a next time after tomorrow night, Mr. Castle," she teased.

"About some things…" His voice rumbled in his chest – the very reason Meredith had nicknamed him 'Kitten.' He shook the uninvited image of his ex from his head. Clearing his throat, he added, "I'll admit self-assurance." He leaned back and kicked out his feet under his desk, oscillating in his office chair. It squeaked, softly.

Her eyes sprung open. "Are you still at your office?"

"Uh–"

"Oh my God, Rick. You need to go home."

"But, I wanted to talk to you," he whined.

"We'll talk tomorrow or tomorrow night," she said reluctantly. Swallowing, she sat up and shook her head. "I have to get some sleep anyway. You don't want me falling asleep in my pasta, do you?"

"As adorable as that sounds, I think that my date face-planting into her pasta during my witty repartee and best wooing would, beyond any doubt, damage my self-assurance and take with it all hope of restoration."

"Really, go home. I'll worry that you're out on the streets this late."

"Afraid I'll get sucked into the dark dealings of the seedy underbelly of this city? The mean streets?

"Oh; good grief," she muttered. She really tried to keep her smile out of her voice. If he knew he was amusing her, it would only encourage him. "Not quite that melodramatic, but…yes."

He spun his chair in a circle. "Maybe I'll get kidnapped and forced to work in the sweat shops in China Town. Oo! Or I could be drafted as a dancing fighter in the Sharks."

"You're ineligible for the Sharks; you'd have to be a Jet. You're more Tony than Bernardo."

He began to sing, "Boy, boy, crazy boy –"

"You're the only crazy one. Go home, Rick."

"Get cool, boy!"

"Oh my God."

"Got a rocket in your pocket –"

"A rocket? I thought that meant you were happy to see me."

"Wha – what?" He sputtered.

"Stop the revue, Bernstein and go home. It's too late to mess around."

"Why, Detective Beckett – that almost sounds like you care about me. I'm touched, truly."

Kate smirked. "You're touched all right. Go home."

He had begun closing up at her first admonition. "Locking the door now." She heard the click and snick of his deadbolt. "Heading for the subway…"

"Rick, I don't need a play by play. Just get home in one piece." She rolled her eyes when she identified what he hummed while walking the streets: a medley beginning with 'Tonight' and ending with 'Officer Krupke' with what she was sure was 'I Feel Pretty' squeezed in between.

"Okay: getting on the number one now."

"Rick!"

He grinned, "Until tomorrow, Kate."

"Good night, Rick."

* * *

"Have you seen Dad?" Alexis asked as she walked out of his home office.

Martha scowled. "Not sleeping late?" As long as he'd been a tax accountant, he would sleep late, or later than his normal time, for at least a week after tax day, a petulant throwback to his less rigidly scheduled artistic days.

"No and it looks like he's been gone a while."

"Hmm," Martha hummed. "Well maybe he had an appointment," she dismissed as she waved her hand and folded the newspaper she had been reading.

"It's weird," Alexis said as she put her and her grandmother's breakfast dishes in the sink.

Martha glanced in the direction of her son's bedroom. "I agree," she murmured and upon turning back, clapped her hands together. "Come on: let's get you to school. I need to get to the shop."

* * *

"I – almost – there. Kate, is it in?" He wiped the sweat from his eye with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, well…there! Oh God, yes: right there!"

"Jeez," he panted. "Next time I'm paying for installation."

"Next time?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Okay: you've a point. Hopefully, we won't have to install another espresso machine. Who knew they were so heavy, huh?"

"I think it's because you got this super dooper, fancy schmancy, extra deluxe version."

He stared at her for a moment, leaning on the broom he had grabbed from the corner. "Hyperbole looks good on you, Detective – or should I say great? I might go so far as to say stupendous." He waggled his eyebrows and began to sweep up the coffee grounds they'd spilled, jockeying for room on the counter earlier. "It's the same model I have at the office, besides, I've gotta take care of my favorite detective and all her caffeine addicted cronies."

"Well, on behalf of all the addicts in blue, we commend you." She snapped her heels together and saluted. "But right now it's only a shiny paper weight. Let's see some action, Castle."

He shook his head. "I've heard about how mean people can be if they don't get their fix." He gave the hot water connection another tug of his wrench and tossed it in his toolbox. Grinning, he flipped the machine's power switch and hearing it bubble to life, he too, percolated, "Okay, Beckett, pick your poison."

"What poison?" Esposito asked as he entered the break room, heading for the sludge they laughingly described as coffee, but stopped short, screwing up his face as he snapped his fingers in Castle's direction. "Um, uh…"

Rick turned from his latte creation and held out a hand. "Rick Castle…the park…a couple of–"

"Weeks ago – yeah, yeah: what are you doing here?"

"Mr. Castle is here learning the ways of the force."

His eyes snapped to Beckett's. "That is so cool," he said as his whole face sparked glee.

"You like that?"

"Well, duh?"

"What do you mean, the ways of–"

"He'll be following me – my shadow," she winked at Castle. "In addition to his excellent accounting skills and tax magic, he is also an author and allegedly, a barista extraordinaire, but I've yet to see evidence of the latter."

All kidding aside, he gazed at her with a modest, unpretentious smile and simultaneously felt warmth for her emanating from deep inside and cold excitement trickling down his spine and dashing through his extremities.

She grinned at his awe-struck stare. "How's that super coffee coming there?"

He came back from orbit. "Um, good." His smile widened. "It's all good."

* * *

"Stop staring at me."

"Oh…sorry," he mumbled and dropped his eyes to the notebook open on his lap, pretending to reread his notes on the more mundane aspects of her job. She'd called him an author. Truly, the group who had actually published his book or his editor had never called him that. He was aspiring. Alexis had, until recently when she'd fallen under the sway of his mother, had said that someday he could be, but in the same way that she thought that someday he could be an astronaut or a circus ringmaster, and his mother flatly dismissed the notion, as usual, endorsing the more practical, safe route, and quashing any notions of the written word as a sustainable method of employment or fulfillment.

Kate had devoured his published book and had insisted on seeing the other two manuscripts as well. At first he thought she was just being nice, after all, his writing had been rejected too many times to count, although he was sure his mother could and would remind him of the number, if given the opportunity.

Beckett shot him a sideways glance and regretted chastising him. It continued a mystery to her how a self-made man, one very successful in his field, could, at times, seem so unsure of himself.

She leaned over toward his chair. "Let's take a break, hm?"

Castle, slow to come back from his silent musings, checked his phone. "It's a little early for lunch."

"So coffee then: there's a great place down the street called Ground Control." She quirked an eyebrow as if she was encouraging a straight 'A' student to truancy as she reached for her bag.

"What about…" he gestured toward the break room where his gift to the twelfth precinct, homicide floor resided.

Tilting her head, she confided, "Sometimes you simply need to get out."

"Okay," he said as he rose and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, holding it for her. Beckett grinned: she could get used to that.

She unnecessarily tousled her short hair free from her collar. Castle, after he began to breathe again, surmised that the short, funky cut and probably the color, as well, were new-ish to the detective.

"Let's go," she gestured to the elevator. "Going for coffee, guys. Call if we get a drop."

"You got it, boss," Ryan answered. Beckett caught the grin he flashed at his partner; a type of look she hadn't seen since middle school. She rolled her eyes, but soon forgot all about her pre-pubescent partners when Castle reached for and engulfed her hand within his as soon as the elevator doors shut.

Reciprocating, she threaded her fingers between his and squeezed. "See? There are advantages to getting out every once in a while."

* * *

"I need more!"

His girlfriend crashed into him when she opened her door. She wound her arms around his neck and a leg locked around his thigh. He balanced the take-out, a small bouquet of blush peonies, and her, as she kissed him and hauled him into her apartment.

Smiling out of the scorching kiss, he drunkenly swore, "Whatever you want, anything…everything." Castle put the food and flowers on the counter only to turn and act as her airbag again.

"Your writing, Rick, I can't figure out why they didn't want to publish this." She stepped back, allowing him to breathe, and grabbed one of his manuscripts.

He frowned, glancing sideways; he recognized his second, 'A Rose for Everafter,' which elicited a myriad of conflicting emotions in him: pride, insecurity, melancholy, and joy. He stared at her as he processed, waiting for the inevitable shoe to drop, the _'just kidding, they were right: this sucks.'_

"Are…" He inhaled and went a different route. "Have you been sampling the wine without me, Kate? Your judgement is obviously suspect." Self-deprecation: could be taken seriously, could be taken as a joke: generally a safe option. He reached for the bottle next to the flowers.

"Stop that."

"Stop –"

"Stop putting yourself down."

He swallowed. "I wasn't serious," he scoffed with an eye roll and a sideways grin, the one he used to deflect hurt.

Kate regarded him; or rather her emotion seeking scanners – known, in most humans, as eyes – sought the truth. He understood why she was so good at her job. Nobody could withstand that scrutiny and have their falsehoods remain unscathed; at any rate, he couldn't.

* * *

"Richard?" Martha cautiously opened the door to his study and smiled. There sat her industrious, responsible son, hard at work. Probably inventing a new economy or working diligently for a client. In fact, he was so engrossed that he hadn't heard her; hadn't stopped typing or so much as raised his head or broken his cadence.

"Darling? I'm going to take Alexis shopping, she needs some school supplies." With no response other than an ambiguous grunt, Martha walked up to his desk and narrowed her eyes. "What are you working on?" She peered at his laptop but couldn't see it clearly from her point of view. Martha harrumphed and knocked on his desk, finally breaking him out of his concentration.

"Oh!" he said coming back to his own universe. "Muh, uh…Mother," he stammered, saving and closing his work like he had when he'd been caught watching pay per view when he was a teen. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing, really," he evaded, or attempted to, his cheeks recalcitrantly tinged themselves pink.

"You're not indulging in a little adult –"

"God," he groaned, "no, Mother."

"Oh!" She clapped her hands together. "Are you going back for an advanced degree? Is that what all the secrecy and untoward schedules are about?"

In hindsight, he realized that he should have let her keep her illusion and her assumptions.

Sighing, possibly in exasperation or perhaps because he had grown weary of the dance, he answered, "No: I'm not getting my _doctorate_ in tax accounting, Mother. Do they even offer that?" He gulped, not wanting to dredge up this fight, the age-old battle between his yearning to write and her iron-fisted opinion of how he should be spending his time, of her disapproval: her sacrifices, the reminders of his failures, his culpability for her lost dreams. He didn't want to, but it seemed that he had to. Something stirred in him. He steeled himself. "I'm…uh, I'm writing."

"Writing? Writing what?"

He bit his lip.

Martha rolled her eyes dramatically. "Richard–"

"I don't–"

"I can't believe that you've opened this old wound: that you're purposely looking to hurt yourself; to subject yourself to more pain. We've talked about this. This…obsession you have is unhealthy. And you must to deny your addiction."

Every sentence knocked him in the gut, as surely as if she were smacking him around. Corporally instilling manners and curbing unseemly, horrid conduct, as if he were a child, a badly behaved child.

"Don't you remember all those rejection letters? Do you really want to put yourself through that again? Sometimes, you're just a flash in the pan, Darling. You had a book published: one book. They didn't want the others."

"No," he said quietly, his eyes on his fingers.

"That's better, Dear." She condescendingly kissed his forehead as if he, her rebellious child, had repented. A stifled child destined to play it safe, stay on the sidelines, do what he is told and not ask questions, seek more…want more. A child who had been paying for his mother's lost dreams for his entire life.

Remaining quiet and motionless, he inhaled and repeated, "No…Mother. I'm…I won't stop…I won't stop writing this time."

"Oh Richard –"

"No! You do not get to dictate my life…not anymore. I've made a good life for Alexis and myself, and further, had the wherewithal to take you in when you needed me. I've worked hard, Mother, and made the sacrifices. I've made a great life, a secure and independent life. But Mother, I'm done. I want to take the chance. I've always crossed at the light, worn a seatbelt, watched my sodium intake and I still don't eat the red M and Ms. I'm safe, I've taken the safe way since Alexis was a baby. I can't play it safe any longer, watching from the sidelines. I need to take this chance and I hope you'll support my decision."

* * *

Kate, slowly but surely was sinking into the morass of her ever-growing pile of paperwork on her desk like how a forgotten, nameless rodent simply searching for a meal of a grub, sinks into the trap of overlooked quick sand, or at least that's how she believed that scenario would appear in her imagination. She pictured a pathetic opossum – because as everyone knows, the opossum would definitely be the paper pushers of the animal kingdom. They'd wear glasses in order to see the paperwork because the glasses sit on their long noses better than they would on any other rodent. She grinned. No doubt the unfortunate fate of the little woodland creature came about as a direct result of her boyfriend's influence, glasses and all. She heard the poor little guy, in Castle's voice whisper, 'Help me!'

She looked up from the boggy pit that was her desk when she heard the elevator doors open with hope, maybe hope or he would say it was their connection. Either way, catching a glimpse of Rick, she saw that he seemed…sad? The expression disappeared, however, as soon as he stepped onto the floor, a sunny, carefree, determined countenance in its place.

"Hey," he greeted as he placed a cardboard cup on an empty space on her blotter.

"Hey, back atcha," she tilted her head and studied him.

"What?" he asked nervously as he sank into his chair.

"Are you okay?"

"Are you kidding? I'm great."

Smiling, she reached for her cup. Her nose told her that he had splurged on the way too expensive café he sometimes patronized. "Mm, what's the occasion?"

"Well, I've…" He inhaled and exhaled before continuing. "I've made a decision."

"Really. What's that?" she asked, trying to pay him due attention, but also distracted by the warm, sweet, bold sensations running down her throat, vying for dominance.

She hummed again and he smiled. It amazed him how she took such pleasure in such a little thing. He wanted to learn to do that, to continue learning the ways of Beckett.

"I'm – uh – going to write again."

"I thought you were already writing." She frowned and dragging herself away from the coffee induced bliss, she considered him. She noted that troublesome sadness again, but also excitement. He could barely sit still. Placing her hand on his knee, she calmed the jiggling limb somewhat, and gave him her full attention. She leaned closer. "I thought you were writing about me."

"Oh, I am. I am, but…" He backed away, giving himself a cushion of space.

"But?"

"But, I'm just going to write. I mean I'm only going to write. I'm…I need to focus on one or the other. I can't run a business and concentrate on my…and give my best effort to my writing –"

Kate held up her hands. "Whoa! You don't have to convince me, babe." She reached across the corner of her desk and lifted his chin so he would look at her. "I love your writing and…" She grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, you're a grown man. If this is what you want then I say, go for it."

Rick studied her. When he tallied everything up, it all came back to her and due to her: her belief in him, her encouragement, her excitement. She inspired him to try, to rekindle a long dormant ember and God, now his passion for writing had exploded into a raging fire. She ignited that tinder; she kept the faith and the flame alive.

Unexpectedly feeling her cheeks heat under his scrutiny, she self-consciously asked "What?"

"I…just…thank you," he said softly. "Not everyone is as supportive as you are," he confessed, mainly to his lap.

Thinking about his shattered relationship with his mother, he inhaled to steady himself. There had been more pleading, more derision and more guilt heaped on top of all the doubt and anxiety he had already been carrying. He had yelled at her. Never had he yelled at his mother for anything before. After he got himself under control, he told her that he appreciated everything she had done for him and for Alexis, but if she couldn't support or at least accept this new path he planned on taking, there was no room for her there. He chiefly couldn't live with the constant reminders of his failures any longer. He already carried enough insecurity without relentless confirmation.

"Your mom?" He looked up at her, searching for the expected disapproval, but finding none, nodded. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Sighing, he granted, "I will be." He shook his head. "Alexis is gonna hate me."

"She's a teenager; she's supposed to hate you," Kate teased. She assessed him again, still. The sadness became more prominent, having mentioned his daughter. "Hey, let's get out of here."

"But, it's too early."

"I've got time. Let me check with the Captain."

* * *

Kate suggested that they take advantage of the warmer weather and their early evening, and walk through the city; they stopped to eat dinner, but took their ice cream dessert home with them.

She listened. He spoke of broken dreams and his renewed passion for writing, how it had been locked away for years, and, after much coaxing, he hesitantly relayed his fight with his mother to her.

She knew that they were an extraordinarily close family, both Rick with his daughter as well as his relationship with his mother. He was the first to acknowledge and appreciate his mother's sacrifices. She noticed that even as he told her about his mother's interference, he justified her actions.

"I don't know too many grown men who would invite their mothers to live with them," she remarked.

"She was in trouble. Her boyfriend had swindled her out of her savings and she lost her apartment. I couldn't ignore her situation."

"Yeah, but that still doesn't give her the right to try and run your life."

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head on the back of her couch. "She's worked hard all of her life. She was an ambitious ingénue who made some mistakes and ended up with me. She gave up everything for me, Kate. She let go of her dreams and opted instead for security, the same way I did, after Meredith left." He blew out a breath that caught in his throat.

Kate watched him as she threaded their fingers together. He still had his eyes closed, but his brow furrowed. She considered him. Rick Castle was a good man, a man who tried to honor everyone else's desires and even took care of their needs and wants. He spoiled the people he loved; she had already been the recipient of his efforts many times. He needed to indulge in a little selfishness or at the very least, let someone spoil him for a while.

Suddenly, he sat up. "Look, I'm terrible company, I'm going to go."

"Or," she said, letting her fingers wend their way up to his temple, massaging his headache, while her other hand gently pushed him back down. "You could stay."


	5. Active Participation

_A/N - Hey!  
_ _I hope some of your are still out there._ _  
_

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GM_

* * *

 **Assets**

 **Chapter 5**

 **Active Participation**

"So, what's got you thinking so hard over there?"

"Hm?" He blinked and focused on her. She watched him come back from wherever he had been. "Oh, good morning. I didn't know you were awake yet. It's still early. Really early."

"I'm used to it. Bodies don't usually wait until I've had my beauty sleep to drop."

"Apparently, you don't need any."

Kate snuggled closer and dipped her head, hiding her blush. "Do you have to go?"

"Not unless you want me to." He absently tickled her shoulder.

"No, no I don't," she said quietly, "but what about Alexis?"

"With a friend for the weekend. As predicted, she hates me. She sent me a message last night. Saying she couldn't stay home watching while I, and I quote, 'exiled' her grandmother." He ran his hand over his face. "I think I've really screwed up."

"It's still new. You and she have lived by yourselves before, right?"

"Yeah, before my mother lost everything." Castle suddenly sat up, easing her off his chest. "What kind of son am I? I just threw my mother out of my house." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and Kate couldn't help but admire the way his muscles rippled, even though his shoulders slumped.

"You're a great son, from what I've seen. You took your mother in when she needed you." She scooted so she knelt directly behind him and with her chin on his shoulder, she kissed his neck and snaked her arms around his torso.

He stretched his head so he could see her. "This…last night was great."

"Yeah," she smiled shyly, taking the opportunity to plant a few more kisses on any available exposed skin.

"I'm…" he sighed and Kate sensed he'd made a decision. "I should go," he whispered and Kate could see the guilt and regret in his bearing.

"Um, okay. Can we…do you want to get together later? Maybe lunch?"

Rick twisted and pulled her onto his lap. He brushed her tousled locks away from her face so he could see her eyes. He needed her to see his sincerity. "It's not a question of want, Kate. I really like you. You've awoken things…feelings and desires in me that I thought were long dead, and I'm not just talking about my writing."

She blushed and smiled. "Okay," she said haltingly, feeling as if she could be standing on the precipice of a slippery slope.

He stared at her, appreciating that his words colored her cheeks. A few minutes passed, and he slowly realized he still scrutinized her and averted his eyes. They tended to lose themselves in a bubble. He cleared his throat. "But I have to fix this. I don't know how to make her understand that writing is something that I need to do."

"It's really none of her business, but I know how close the two of you are."

"When I was growing up, it was just the two of us. She's sacrificed so much for me."

"Rick," she began and lifted his head so he'd have to look her in the eyes. "You don't owe your mother for her choices while bringing you up. She still could have pursued her dream. The fact that she didn't isn't on you."

"I don't think you understand."

Kate studied his face. "I do," she stated. Inhaling, she leapt from his lap and padded to her dresser. She opened and closed a box and came back to sit next to him on the bed. She reached for his left hand and intertwined their fingers. She held her left hand in a fist on her lap. Rick's natural curiosity drew his attention to it.

Opening her hand, she revealed a woman's ring on a long chain. He reached for it and, although she had never shared it with anyone before, allowed him to examine her most precious keepsake.

"It's beautiful – different," he whispered as he admired the ring. He quickly surmised that it wasn't Kate's, her fingers were much more lithe compared to the ring's size.

"It was my mother's," she said quietly.

They hadn't talked about her mom or her dad. Rick had wondered, but beyond learning that she was native to New York and had been on her own for a while, he didn't know about her family.

"Was," he repeated.

"Have you ever wondered why I'm a cop?" she asked as she reverently placed the chain around her neck.

He dipped his head. Truly, he had wondered. Why such a smart, good-looking woman became a cop had been one of the first things he'd pondered about when he started writing about her. Everything from a Batman-esque tragedy to an overly developed protection complex to a sexual kink involving handcuffs had occurred to his caffeine fueled consideration in the wee hours of the mornings. He hadn't yet asked though.

"To be honest, yes. I just didn't…I have a theory, though."

She raised an eyebrow and a grin pulled at her lips. "A theory, huh? Okay, let's hear it."

He dipped his head again. A blush crept up his neck. Kate kissed the spreading warmth before she stood and pulled him up with her.

"Why don't we get some coffee and then you can hit me with it and then I'll set you straight."

"It doesn't sound like you have a lot of confidence in my abilities."

"Oh no, I have a great deal of confidence in some of your abilities," she said as she swatted his rear end, "but I'm not sure how good a profiler you'd make."

"Is that a real thing?"

"Yeah, every law agency I know of has them." She smiled, "You could even work for the FBI. I had to take a course."

"Cool," he grinned as he followed her to the kitchen.

They enjoyed breakfast, talking about anything not having to do with his mother. She'd distracted him and pulled him out of his funk and his self-recrimination. She hadn't yet met his mother, and had decided to reserve judgment until she did, but the woman had heaped an unfair amount of culpability on her son's shoulders. Kate tried very hard not to dislike her.

"I'm waiting, oh master profiler and don't stall because I have to go to work. I will hear your theory one way or another."

He sipped from the coffee mug he held in both hands, elbows on the table, as he gazed at her. "I'm having trouble concentrating. You do realize you're not wearing any pants, right?" And her over-sized tee shirt hung off her shoulder, draping her curves alluringly.

She waved her hand at him and maybe stared a second too long. "Well, you're not wearing anything but those b-boxer briefs." Pausing to collect herself, she folded her arms in front of her chest and raised her chin. "I'd say we're matched. Stop stalling."

He took another swig of his coffee and inhaled deeply as he set it down. "Well," he began narrowing his eyes as if assessing a piece of art. "You're not Bridge and Tunnel - no trace of the boroughs when you talk, so that means Manhattan. That means money. I already know you went to college." He nodded to the Stanford pennant behind some other knick-knacks on her bookshelf. "You had options. Yeah, you had lots of options. You could have gone anywhere, given how intelligent you are." He paused and inhaled again. Kate noticed that he was no longer looking at her, but at that inner place she had seen him go while he was writing. Close but also a million miles away. "I think you were on your way to something great." His eyes guiltily snapped to hers. "Not that you're not great now." She offered him an amused smile and let him off the hook. "But you had better options. More socially acceptable options. And you still chose to be a cop. The question is why. The why is that something happened." He blinked and focused on her again, or rather her mother's ring, back from his imagination.

Exhaling, he reached for her hand. "Oh God, Kate. Something happened to your mother?" He tilted his head, waiting for her response.

She'd made peace with it a long time ago, but the truth was that she still missed her mom and every once in a while, the wound ached, her obsession begging to be let off the leash long years of therapy and resolve had levied.

"She was killed, murdered…"

"Jesus."

"I was going to school to become a lawyer, like both of my parents." She smiled and dipped her head, her hair falling in front of her face. "I was going to become the first female chief justice." She shrugged. "I guess I've always wanted to serve and to seek justice somehow. When she was killed, the detectives found an easy answer, but not the right one. I became a cop because I wanted to solve her murder, to give her the justice she deserved, we all deserve, but it took over my life. It became an obsession to the exclusion of everything else."

Rick wanted to hold her, to promise her everything she needed. He waited for her to continue.

"My dad found his own obsession – he drank." At the crushed look on his face, she added, "He's better. He's been sober for five years. It's good and I'm good, now. I've let it go and while there will always be a part of me that wants justice for her, I've realized that the way I was fixated on her death wasn't bringing any honor to her life. She was wonderful, Rick. Smart, sassy, funny, and honorable. I'm a pale shadow of her, but I know she would have wanted me to be happy."

"Are you?"

"Happy?"

He nodded.

"Mostly. I still love finding justice. I love giving that sense of finality or closure to a family." She stared at the table for a moment. "Sometimes, I wonder how it would feel, but like my dad and the booze, I know I can't go back to it."

"What if someone else looked at it?" Tried to solve her case."

"Someone else did. The detective assigned to her case said it was random. Maybe it was," she traced an indent on the worn wooden table with her finger. "Maybe I want her death, like her life, to have a deeper meaning. It's hard to accept that someone you love so much can suddenly not be there. It makes you want to close yourself off from the world, from relationships. You never want to leave yourself vulnerable to that kind of heartache again. We take too much for granted. We should learn to live…"

"Purposefully," he finished.

She lifted her eyes to his. "We should learn to love purposefully."

He stood and reached for her hand. Kate watched him and then stood, while he pulled her toward him. He embraced her and then tenderly kissed her. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

Kate smiled. "I have wonderful memories of my mom; the way she lived, the way she helped people. That's the way I want to remember her. That's the way I want to remember her, by her life, not her death. If it wasn't for someone's help, I might have defined my whole life by her death."

He stared at her and she saw the spark when it ignited his eyes. "I…I need to go," he said reluctantly.

Kate smiled wistfully. "I'm happy to be your inspiration, Mr. Castle, but…" she sighed.

"I'll stay, if you want."

"No. Go talk to your mom. I have to get ready for work anyway. Love her purposefully but promise me that you'll stand up for yourself. You have taken care of everyone, Rick. You deserve to be happy, too."

* * *

Kate returned from the break room with a vanilla latte balanced between her palms. The rich scent made her smile. It made her think of him. The memories of their first night together still sending pleasant warm ripples through her one moment and chills of anticipation of their next date the next.

She stopped short. A flash of red hair that demanded attention like neon sat next to her desk. Oh, his daughter. Kate only met the girl once and, upon reflection, she had probably left her with a bad impression. Inhaling, she decided to make amends. If the relationship with Rick was going anywhere, she would need the approval of his…she stopped short again, sloshing drops of coffee between her fingers. That was not his daughter. She didn't know her, but there was something familiar about her. She tried to make a quick evacuation back to the break room, but she was not fast or stealthy enough not to be noticed by the older woman sitting next to her desk.

"Hello?" she called to Kate's back. Kate inhaled and then turned slowly. She surreptitiously wiped her sticky hands on her jeans.

"Are you Detective Beckett?" The woman assessed her, her eyes narrowed as Kate remembered where she'd seen her before: in his office, the photo of them on his desk.

"Yes, and you're Rick's mother?"

The woman smiled. "Yes, but Martha, please." Mrs. Rodgers stood and extended her hand. "I am sorry to be meeting under these circumstances, but…"

Kate hastily set her cup on the desk, spilling another drop or two. Rick's mother noticed and raised an eyebrow.

She unconsciously wiped her hand on her jeans again and shook the woman's hand. "I'm sorry, what circumstances, exactly?"

"Well Richard's, of course." She sighed as she sat back down. She lifted her purse and fished out a handkerchief on which she wiped her own hands. "I know that you and he have begun some sort of… relationship…" Martha made air quotes as she said the word relationship, paused to watch Kate's reaction.

Inwardly, Kate's hackles rose. Outwardly, she kept quiet and tucked into her desk.

Martha continued, "You see, he's been very busy. You don't get to be the Tax King of Manhattan," (more air quotes) "without hard work and long hours…and discipline."

"I agree," Kate said. "Rick is very talented."

"Yes," the older woman hummed, "and we wouldn't want anything to interfere with his success, would we?"

"Of course not."

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other." She started to stand and gather her coat and purse.

"Understand?" Kate blinked. "Please Mrs. Rodgers." She gestured for her to retake her seat.

"Martha, dear," Martha said patronizingly after she sighed and sat again.

Kate gave her a patient closed mouth smile. "I understand that he is very talented and kind, and is probably the most loving father and son I've ever known."

Martha opened her mouth, but Kate ignored her and continued, "But, he is a grown man capable of making his own decisions. Our relationship is fairly new." Kate felt her cheeks heat, but she wasn't sure if it was from thinking about their new relationship aspects or because she was hotly defending him. "That is true, but that is wholly between your son and me. I have no business telling him what he should do with his life."

Martha's dubious pleasant expression faltered, but only for a second. She opened her mouth again, but Kate continued.

"And neither do you."

"Well, I..."

Kate leaned forward. "Don't you see how writing makes him feel?" She waited, although she didn't really expect a response. "He's happy."

"Happy," Martha scoffed. "How long have you been around? A few weeks? I've been with him his entire life and there's more than happiness in this life, Detective. There's responsibility and... sacrifice and..."

"Martha," Kate began softly, "He has made sacrifices...just as you have." Kate placed her hand over Martha's. "Just as all good parents do for their children. Rick has done extraordinarily well as an accountant..."

"He's the best," Martha agreed, with no small amount of pride shining in her eyes.

Kate smiled. "At a lot of things." She paused, lifted her cup, and breathed in the scent that always brought him to mind. "He is a good writer Martha. Very good. Have you read any of his stories?"

Martha looked taken aback and, if her detective skills were working accurately, somewhat guilty. "Well, I..." she swallowed and wrung her hands. "I've never liked all that crime stuff," she admitted quietly. She inhaled and girded herself defensively. "But if all those publishers...you know I'm just trying to protect him. You weren't there. You don't know what those rejections did to him. I was the only one there and I was the only one who helped him to pick up the pieces. I always have been, but that's a mother's burden." She waved her hand near her face as if fanning the sweat from a day of hard labor.

"He's told me about that time. About Meredith, about how she hurt him, about raising Alexis on his own, about...about how he took you in."

Martha's face reddened. She dropped her gaze, inhaled deeply, and clenched her fists. When she lifted her eyes to Kate's, for a split second, Kate saw embarrassment and shame, only to be replaced by a fierce determination. Martha deliberately stood and walked into the break room as if she'd been there before. Almost, Kate thought, like she owned the place.

Kate stood and followed her, finding her fishing a bottle of water from the vending machine. Martha opened the bottle and took a long drink. Every movement appeared to be scripted: designed to maximize dramatic effect. She could have made it if she had pursued her dream, Kate was sure of it.

When she finally spoke, Martha manipulated all her face and body to convey her feelings. Kate thought the gestures were overly embellished. "He didn't take me in. He needed me to help with Alexis. He tells people that story, so he doesn't seem weak and needy." She paused and took another swig from the bottle. "Took me in," she laughed although it was more of a bark. "Did he also tell you that he threw me out?"

Kate felt as if everything was getting out of control. "I'm sorry, Martha, I didn't mean…"

"You come in to our lives and upset everything I have worked for; my entire life has gone into making his life bearable. You with your doe eyes and your wild ideas." Martha stared at Kate. "You're just like all the rest. He's handsome and talented, so you think you can just waltz in, sleep with him, and take over." She turned and dropped the water bottle into the recycling bin. She spun around and faced Kate once more, walking right up to her, so close that Kate took a half step back. "Well, sweetheart, you had better think again."

* * *

The entire ride home, Rick barely noticed the people, the traffic, the cab where he currently sat. He was sure he had a dopey look on his face, but he didn't care. The night with Kate had been wonderful – even magical, but then their morning had been a level of intimacy he had never experienced before. She trusted him with her story. And if that wasn't mind-blowing enough, she believed in him and supported his decisions. He'd never had that. Not from his mother, certainly not from Meredith, not from the single one-night stand he'd had. He'd gone into the bar right after Meredith left him looking for – well, he still wasn't sure if it was companionship, human contact, validation, just sex, or some combination of them. He only knew he felt horrible the next day and vowed never to seek comfort in the arms of a stranger ever again.

He cautiously opened his apartment door and listened. Alexis wasn't home. He sighed – he'd have to confront his daughter's feelings eventually, but first he'd have to clear things up with his mother. He didn't hear anything, but that wasn't unusual. At ten on a Saturday morning, his mother would either be at her salon or sleeping-in. He didn't want to catch her packing.

He stopped in the kitchen to make coffee and then headed to his office. He'd take a quick shower – no need to enlighten his mother of where he spent the night – he totally smelled like Kate, and then maybe get some background notes down – similar to Kate's background, but not on the nose. He wanted her to retain her privacy.

Walking through the office, he slowed. His desk was covered with papers – letters from their look.

As he walked closer, he recognized them. "Shit!" Twenty-one letters all beginning with _'Dear Mr. Castle, Thank you for your submission, however.._.' "This is..." he muttered. He turned and found the copies of the manuscripts that had been returned. "Really?"

He began to gather the paper to dump in the recycling bin in the kitchen when he heard the door open. He strode out of his office, made sure it wasn't Alexis before dropping the whole mess on the floor behind his mother, who was hanging up her coat.

She startled. "What the hell?"

"Exactly. Mother, what did you hope to gain from this?"

Martha pursed her lips, but his phone rang, saving her from having to answer.

Rick held up his hand as he answered, "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, well...sort of. I think."

"Kate?" He turned his back on his mother who had muttered something.

"Your mom came to visit me today?"

"What?"

"Yeah. Listen, she's just worried about you. She's your mother, Rick."

"What did she do?" was the last thing Martha heard as he disappeared into his office, kicking his door closed with his foot.

"We had a talk."

"A talk?"

Kate relayed her encounter with his mother that morning. Rick became angrier, the more she spoke, interrupting her with expletives or apologies. He told her what he'd found when he'd arrived home.

"I need you to calm down before you talk to her."

"I just can't figure out what she hoped to gain by either speaking to you or by pulling out those rejection letters."

"I don't know – well, I'm pretty sure she was trying to scare me off."

"God, I'm sorr..."

"Not your fault," she assured, "besides, I'm not going anywhere." She paused to listen to him. His breathing had calmed. "As for the letters, I don't know, maybe she wanted to remind you of your past problems getting published, so you'd be careful."

"You're kind."

"Thanks, but try to see it from her point of view, okay?"

He inhaled deeply and rubbed his nose under his glasses. Blowing the breath out, he agreed, "I'll try."

"Try to make her see your point of view, too. Use those magic words, Babe. That'll work. Just don't do anything permanent – she's your mother, you won't know how much you miss her until she's gone."


End file.
